


Away Down South

by Karl5



Category: Alien Nation
Genre: Gen, Set in Alien Nation universe but I invented all of the characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:24:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 112,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karl5/pseuds/Karl5
Summary: This story is about a binnaum who is also an Overseer.  He tries to flee from his past by leaving the big cities and settling in a small town in the Sunny South.  Things get complicated when the Ku Klux Klan comes after the few Newcomers who live in the town.  Slowly but surely, his past catches up to him.  Will he survive, and will he also be accepted by his fellow Newcomers?  Or will he keep on running?





	1. Away Down South

AWAY DOWN SOUTH  
Karl5 

 

Francis knew he had made a mistake when he saw the automatic weapons in the hands of several of the humans. At least he assumed they were humans; under the white robes and hoods it was impossible to be certain.

He shouldn't have stopped. He should have driven on to the nearest town and called the local police. But how do you ignore a group of people who appear to be beating someone with clubs, especially when they're doing it in a field along a deserted country road in the middle of the night in the flickering light from a large burning cross? He had left his van by the side of the road and run quietly across the field before he'd even been able to see that the person they were beating was a fellow Tenctonese. He should have wondered why the newcomer wasn't using his greater strength against his attackers, but he didn't. Not until one of the automatic rifles was aimed at him and it was too late.

"Well, well. Looks like we got us another one," said the owner of the rifle. "Come on over and join the party." Although rather deep, it was a woman's voice, much to Francis' surprise. He had assumed all the robed figures to be male humans. In his experience, the males were most often the violent ones, not the females.

Nevertheless, this one looked dangerous enough. She held her weapon as if she knew very well how to use it. Five of the others also had guns. As he got closer, Francis debated whether there was any chance he could overcome them all before they could kill him.

The other newcomer lay on the ground, clad only in pajama bottoms, which were stained with a considerable amount of dirt and blood. He must have been literally dragged out of bed. Pushing himself up on one arm, the young man wiped a hand across his bleeding face and stared at Francis. As if he knew what Francis were thinking, he said quickly in Tenctonese, *Don't. They'll kill my wife.*

"Talk so we can understand you, damn it!" The robed woman kicked his arm out from under him, the barrel of her gun never moving from Francis' chest.

"Don't worry," said another of the humans, "he didn't say anything dangerous. Quite the contrary, in fact." The speaker had a coiled bullwhip in one hand and he stood with his legs apart in a classic macho stance. This had to be one of the leaders, but his voice didn't have the same drawl and intonation Francis had come to associate with this area of the country. And he apparently understood Tenctonese. Odd.

The man stepped to one side, giving Francis a clear view of a very frightened Tenctonese woman. A human stood next to her, rifle pointed unwaveringly at her head. Another one held a bucket.

"As your friend said, don't try any stuff or the little lady gets a nice saltwater shower. That's if we're feeling charitable, of course. If not, she'll get a bullet through her brain."

The woman glanced at Francis briefly, then her eyes sought out her husband where he lay on the ground. She didn't say a word, just watched him. The thin summer nightgown she wore would be little protection if they decided to dump that water on her.

A rather short human holding a stout wooden club dipped a hand in the bucket. 

"Does this stuff really hurt them?" he asked in a voice that sounded young. He lifted one dripping finger toward the woman's face. She pulled back and tried to turn aside.

Francis forced himself to remain still, hoping her husband would have the sense to do the same.

The leader knocked the youngster's hand aside. "Stop it. I've got other plans for her."

The boy dried his hand across the front of his robe. "She looked scared enough to convince me. Guess you won't be sellin' any beachfront property to the slags, huh?"

"Shut up," the other man growled. Then he looked closer at Francis. "Any of you recognize this one?"

"Nah. They all look alike to me." The robed woman stepped closer. "You got a name, mister?"

"I am called Francis Bernardone. And you?"

She laughed. "This ain't no etiquette class, pal. Any more smart remarks and I'll blow your head off. You hear me?"

"I hear you very well."

The other newcomer sat up gingerly. Francis could see the strain written on his face. It wouldn't take much to push him into doing something rash. Most of the young man's attention was on the little group surrounding his wife, but he glanced quickly at Francis and then said to the human holding the whip, "He's not from around here. Let him go."

The one who seemed to be in charge nodded shortly. He gestured toward the newcomer woman and ordered, "Tie her to a tree. The stranger here can watch too, and tell everyone else what he saw." 

Considering the whip in the human's hand, Francis could make a pretty good guess at what was coming. The other newcomer was already in bad shape and now they intended to whip his wife. The young man's body tensed. He wasn't going to take that. He was going to try to fight them off, regardless of the probable consequences.

Francis stepped between the leader and the man on the ground. "All I see is another example of human bigotry and cowardice," he said quietly. He stared directly at the eyeslits in the man's hood, making sure the expression on his face matched that of a human regarding a particularly loathesome piece of garbage. It shouldn't be too difficult to provoke the hooded man. He just had to be careful that he didn't provoke him enough to get them all killed. "Do you hide your faces because you're ashamed of what you do, or are you simply afraid to let anyone know who you are?"

"Why, you alien scum, I'll -- "

He was only prevented from hitting Francis with the whip handle by one of the others catching his arm. "We are not after this one," said a short human with no weapon. He didn't drawl either, but he spoke with a distinct foreign accent. "Better we should let him go, no?"

"No." The leader shrugged him off, moving closer to Francis. A faint smell of cigarette smoke clung to his clothing. "One's about the same as the other, for our purposes. Put the fear of God into a few of them, and the rest'll pack up and leave soon enough. Besides, this one needs to learn a little respect. Tie him to the tree instead. I think I'll let him do more than watch." He handed his bullwhip to the tallest of the robed figures, saying, "You can do the honors this time."

"No!" The young Tenctonese man tried to stand up, but was halted by the rifle nudging his wife's head.

*Don't interfere,* Francis said shortly, as he was grabbed by two of the humans. They stripped off his shirt and pushed him up against the tree. As they tied his arms around the trunk, he heard one of them suck in his breath when he saw the tattoo on his wrist. Francis thought it was the small man with the odd accent who had noticed, but he wasn't entirely sure, since he was on the far side of the tree.

As the tall man uncoiled the whip, Francis couldn't help but notice the color of the human's hands. This was one of the dark-skinned types.

"Now, let's see how long it takes to make you beg for mercy, since you're so fond of telling us about cowardice," the leader gloated.

Francis closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the rough bark. This was going to hurt, despite the humans' crude method of torture. Clearing his mind of everything else, he focused on the image he had always used to block out unpleasant situations: the dark emptiness of space, the only light the pinpricks of distant stars.

For a time, the cold vision overrode the burning pain of the whip on his back. After that, he was just too damn stubborn to give the humans the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Eventually, he fainted.

 

Francis came to lying on his stomach with a cushioned surface underneath him. Everything seemed to be quiet. He had no clothes on, but he could feel a covering of some sort over the lower half of his body. He hurt in places he'd rather not hurt, so he had most likely been kicked or beaten even after he'd passed out.

He slitted his eyes open only slightly, not wanting to give away the fact that he was conscious if he were still surrounded by the hostile humans. He was indoors, lying on a couch in what appeared to be a living room. That was a hopeful sign.

A door closed somewhere in the house, then there was the creak of footsteps coming down a stairway. Francis thought about getting up, but the first twitch of his shoulders sent fresh streaks of pain down his back, so he gave up on that idea. No matter. He was safe enough where he was for the time being.

The young Tenctonese woman appeared in the doorway, tying the sash of a housecoat that covered her bedraggled nightgown. In the light from the single lamp, he could see that she was quite attractive. The spots on her head formed a pleasing pattern of small ripples, and her ears were exquisitely shaped. Dark circles showed around her eyes and her left cheek was swollen and bruised. Nevertheless, her stride was steady as she crossed the room. 

*How are you, stranger?* she asked.

*I'll live,* Francis answered shortly. *Your husband --?*

*He just took a pain-killer and is in bed. We didn't know how long you would be unconscious. But he's a healer and had already examined you and decided you were in no danger. We cleaned up your back and sprayed it with medication, so there should be no infection. You shouldn't move around too much just yet though.*

*How did I get here?*

*As soon as they left us alone, I used your van to drive us home.* She sank wearily into a battered easy chair, gingerly touching the purple bruise on her cheek. *If you hadn't come along when you did,* she went on, *I'd have been hurt much worse. We owe you thanks, Mr. Bernardone.*

*Just Francis, please. Or Treyma, if you prefer,* he replied, making a dismissing gesture with one hand. Then he realized his arms were bare and she couldn't help but see the Overseer's tattoo on his right wrist. His first impulse was to pull down a sleeve that wasn't there. No. Useless, in any event. She would have seen it by now.

*Do I know your name?*

*Oh, sorry. I am Seliessa Lenchka, called by the humans Jane Wagner. My husband is Neerav, called Richard.* Her delicate features creased into a wry grin. *He hates opera, of course.*

*That figures,* Francis replied. The name they had given him was no more suitable. *Who were those most unpleasant people in the white robes?*

Her face twisted and her eyes darted away, but she answered in a firm voice. *That was the Ku Klux Klan. Some of the other newcomers have had trouble with them since we moved here last year. People have been shot at, and they've burned crosses in front of houses. They're trying to scare us into leaving.*

*I've heard of Purists planting flaming circles on people's lawns, but I didn't know there was a group that used crosses. I should think it would imply some sort of desecration to burn a religious symbol.*

*Somehow I don't think it works that way.* She rose to her feet. *If you'll excuse me, I'm going to shower and get dressed. It will be morning soon and I've got to get to work.*

*Aren't you going to call the police and report what happened? Perhaps those people can be arrested.*

Contact with the authorities wasn't exactly what Francis wanted, but he was puzzled that they hadn't done it by now.

Her smile was hollow and grim. *Why waste our time? We couldn't identify any of them. Besides, the police won't do anything. Those who aren't afraid of the Klan are in sympathy with it. I wouldn't even be surprised if some of them are members.* 

*But --*

*You don't live in this part of the country, do you?*

Francis shook his head.

*If you did, you'd understand. I'll be back very soon.*

She retreated down the hall. Shortly after that, he heard the water running.

Francis closed his eyes and thought things over. "Klan" he could understand, but what in the name of Celine and Andarko was a "Ku Klux"?

By the time Jane returned, it was getting light outside. She wore slacks and a baggy top and had covered the bruise on her face as best she could with make-up. *I have to start work at the daycare center by 6AM, but there's time for breakfast. You hungry?*

*Are you sure you're in shape to go to work?*

She shrugged. *I could call in sick, but I've missed too many days already this year. Neerav's on the afternoon shift at the clinic, so he should be feeling better by then.*

*In that case, I would be glad to take you up on the offer of breakfast.* 

*I'll go see what's in the fridge. I think there's some possum left over from last night.* She grimaced. *Sorry I can't offer anything fancier.*

Francis had noticed that possum seemed to be about the cheapest meat one could buy around here. Even a few of the humans ate it. Cooked, of course.

*Possum's fine,* he replied.

 

Francis watched the room become brighter as the sun rose. Before Jane had left for work, he had asked her to go out to his van and bring him some clean clothes. Now he continued to lie on the couch, gazing at his brown corduroy trousers neatly folded over the back of a plain wooden chair and wondering if he shouldn't make the effort to get up and put them on.

Birds chirped and warbled outside, their voices pouring in through the open windows. A few locusts began to drone. Already the air was thick with humidity. It was going to be another hot June day.

He should get up and get dressed. He should go out to his van and drive away, despite his bruises and his scored back. These people's problems had nothing to do with him. He had enough problems of his own to deal with. He should be on the road.

But the dust motes swirled hypnotically in the first bright ray of sun to come through the window and the birdsong spoke of joy and contentment. He decided to rest just a little while longer before he left.

Shortly, Francis fell asleep.

 

The sun was high in the sky when he awoke, the light no longer slanting in at a few windows but instead blazing down in a relentless glare all around the house. Francis lifted himself carefully into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and pushing aside the thin flannel blanket that covered him. His back felt stiff and no longer as numb as before. The stuff they'd sprayed on it must be wearing off.

He reached for the clothing on the chair, stepping into underwear and pants where he sat and then standing up to pull them over his hips. Picking up his wallet and keys from an end table, he settled them in his pockets, then put on socks and sneakers.

Deciding it was high time he found a bathroom, Francis walked quietly down the hall, trying to recall which way Jane had gone to take her shower. He passed a big old-fashioned kitchen, neat and clean but with the appliances and fixtures showing signs of age.

The bathroom was the same, generous in size but far from modern. The bathtub stood on short curving legs and the shower had obviously been an afterthought. In the sink, hot and cold water each came from a separate faucet, much to Francis' amusement.

Craning his neck, he inspected his back in the mirror. The stuff they had sprayed on it had formed a thin protective coating. A few of the deepest cuts were still wet and oozing, but most were beginning to scab over. If he didn't move so as to split anything open, it should heal fairly cleanly. He didn't think he'd want to put a shirt on just yet, though.

Finished in the bathroom, Francis retraced his steps down the hall. A wooden stairway slanted up into shadows, leading to the bedrooms on the top floor. Not wanting to disturb his host, he bypassed the stairway quietly.

He should leave now.

The front door creaked loudly on its hinges as he opened it and stepped out onto a wooden porch that ran the entire length of the house. Part of it was screened, part open to the air. A gnarled live oak tree threw its ragged shadow across the porch, rustling a little in the slight breeze. His van stood at the side of the house, on a dirt driveway leading out to a road a considerable distance away.

He turned back to the door, planning to write a brief note to Jane and Richard telling them he had gone. His eye was caught by a strange contraption slung across a corner of the porch, a brightly-woven rectangle of heavy fabric with cords at either end, which were gathered together and attached to hooks. It must be a hammock, although he'd never seen anything but a picture of one before. He decided he had to find out what it was like to sit in such a thing.

Lowering himself onto the edge of the fabric, he almost over-balanced and flipped over. Then he got the feel of it and sat comfortably, swinging cautiously back and forth.

A bluejay swooped to the far rail of the porch, scolding raucously. Bushes and trees cast welcome patches of shade on the wilted-looking grass. On the far side of the yard, a gray cat lay curled up under a bush. It would be nice to lie back in the hammock with a glass of sour milk at hand and just watch the time pass.

For a moment, he allowed himself to envy Jane and Richard. It was peaceful here, not like in the big cities he'd seen. Tranquility and fresh growing things. A place to call your own.

And humans who wore sheets and burned crosses. This world was full of strange contradictions.

A magazine lay on a small table just within reach of the hammock. Francis picked it up. "Southern Living" proclaimed the title. He considered going out to the van and getting his reading glasses, then decided he was too comfortable where he was. He leafed through the magazine idly, wondering if there might be something about the people in sheets.

There wasn't, but some of the articles were pretty interesting.

When he heard a radio come on inside the house, he almost jumped up and headed for his van. Then he decided it wouldn't be polite to leave without at least speaking to his host, who was obviously awake now. He went back to scanning the magazine but the sense of tranquility he had previously felt eluded him.

It wasn't long before Richard Wagner opened the front door. He was dressed in white pants and tunic, the typical uniform human healers wore. The color accentuated the purplish swelling around one eye and the puffiness of his split lip.   
When he saw Francis in the hammock, a surprised expression crossed his face. *Oh, you're still here. When I didn't find you inside, I thought perhaps you'd left   
already.*

*I'll go, if you wish.*

*No, no. That's not what I meant. Please stay with us until you've recovered.*

Despite his words, he didn't sound enthusiastic about the invitation. He sank down into an old wooden rocking chair, wincing as he leaned back.

*Are you all right?* Francis asked.

*Yeah,* the other man replied. He appeared to be somewhere in his twenties, but his voice had hopelessness to it that didn't fit his youth.

*You don't sound all right. I don't mean to pry but --*

Richard slammed one fist down on the arm of the chair. *I feel as if I’ve been shamed. I mean, I wasn't even able to protect my own wife from those thugs.*

*No one could have been expected to do that, considering the odds. Not to mention the artillery.*

*That's what I try to tell myself, but then I remember Jane watching them beat me, and the way I didn't even dare defend her when they threatened her.* He looked off into the distance, his fingers tightening around the arm of the chair. *It was like being back on the ship again.*

Francis absently rubbed his left thumb over the tattoo on his other wrist. He took a careful breath to steady his voice and replied calmly, *The evil actions of others cannot shame or dishonor you. Only your own actions can do that.*

Richard looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely for the first time. *You really believe that?*

*It doesn't have to be believed; it's the truth.*

Richard sat in silence for a long moment. Then he stood up. Taking a small spraycan out of his pocket, he walked around behind Francis. *Let me have a look at your back. It could probably stand another coating of this stuff.* He said nothing for a moment, then continued, *Not too bad, actually. Just a few raw places. This will sting for a minute, and then turn numb.*

It did. Richard came around in front of him again, his eyes still on Francis' bare torso. *You've got some pretty nasty scars on your right shoulder,* he remarked. *Looks like a gunshot wound.*

*It was.*

The other man continued to inspect him with a professional gleam in his eyes. *Must have done a good bit of damage, judging from the angle. Maybe broken some bones. Does it give you any trouble?*

*Sometimes,* Francis admitted, but his tone did not invite further comment.

Slouching against the porch railing, Richard changed the subject abruptly. *You're a binnaum, aren't you?*

Francis nodded.

*I thought so, from the pattern of your spots. Then when we took off your clothes to examine you, I couldn't help but notice -- I mean --*

*That's all right.*

*Mr. Bernardone --*

*Francis, please.* He knew what the next question would be just from the expression on the other man's face and the way his eyes looked everywhere except at his wrist. *Yes, I was an Overseer.*

Richard looked away, playing absently with the spray can in his hand. He didn't say anything for a long moment, then he replaced the can in his pocket and turned to Francis. *I suppose I ought to thank you. After all, you tried to help us last night. If you hadn't come along at just the right moment, I guess they'd have whipped Jane.*

*Possibly they were only trying to scare you into thinking they would.*

*No, they've been known to whip women.*

Something more than that was bothering Richard. His thanks had sounded grudging, with an undercurrent of anger. *Neerav, your words say one thing, but your voice says another. Why are you angry at me?*

*Maybe I don't want to be helped by an Overseer! Maybe I wish you'd just minded your own business and kept out of this!*

*You don't owe me anything. I'll leave now.* Francis started to get out of the hammock, but Richard put his hand out in front of him.

*No. I shouldn't have said that. I'm upset--* His voice trailed off and he stared out over the yard. *It's just that the Overseers continue to be our enemies, even here on earth. They're involved in all sorts of things --*

Francis interrupted him quietly. *I am not your enemy. Believe me.*

*Give me one good reason why I should.*

Francis didn't say anything. He had no reasons to give. The silence stretched between them again until Richard broke it. 

*What are you doing here? In this part of the country, I mean? There are hardly any Tenctonese in this area.*

*I'm just travelling around. I live mostly out of my van.*

*You can afford not to work?*

*Yes. I -- have a little money saved up.* He was careful to offer no further details about his financial status.

*I see. It must be nice.*

Francis didn't respond to that. Instead, he remarked, *I'm surprised there are any Tenctonese here at all. It's a pretty out of the way place, and it's awfully close to the ocean.*

*Even so, there are twenty-one families living in and around Cartersville. Most of us came here because the property is relatively cheap and we could afford to buy homes.* He waved his hand to take in the house and the field surrounding it. *Five acres of this land is mine. The house is old, but we like it. We've been here almost a year now. Six other families have moved here since then. We all decided we were sick of city life.*

*I can understand that. It must be nice to have a home of your own.*

Richard gave a short laugh. *We're mortgaged, as the humans say, up to our ears. It's not easy paying the bills, since no one will hire us for the really good jobs. Jane has a Masters degree in early childhood education and the best she can do is work in a daycare center. I'm trained as a physician's assistant, but the only place that will hire me is the government clinic. As you can imagine, the pay isn't good for either of us. Even so, we've been able to make ends meet.* Then the pride drained out of his voice. *But I guess we'll have to sell out and leave. I can't risk the same thing happening again, like last night. I don't want to raise a family that has to live in fear.*

*You could stay and fight for what you've got.*

Richard snorted softly. *We're all struggling just to get by. We haven't the time or the energy to take on the Klan. Besides, the local human community doesn't want us and the authorities won't help us. That's pretty clear. We've got no choice.*

*There's always a choice. Even deciding to give up is still a choice.* 

*Don't preach to me, Overseer!* Richard flared. *You don't live here. You don't have to face this all the time. When you do, then you can tell me how to handle it.* He got to his feet, glancing at his wristwatch as he did so. *I'm going to work now. Jane should be home in about another hour. You're welcome to make yourself comfortable in the meantime.*

Once again, Richard's words said one thing and his voice another. Francis didn't comment on it this time. He just watched the other man get into a beat-up old Plymouth and drive out to the road.

He really should leave now. It was quite clear that Richard wasn't pleased to have him around, even though he'd said he could stay. But Francis was so tired of moving from place to place, seeing no one who wasn't a stranger. The endless succession of motel rooms and nights spent sleeping in his van had long ago worn out whatever novelty travel might once have held for him.

Wasn't he far enough away by now to stay put for a short time, at least? Two years and an entire continent lay between him and those who might still be looking for him. There could be no harm in resting here for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. He'd stayed that long in several places before. Why not here?

Francis was still debating with himself when a small car turned off the road and bumped down the drive, raising a cloud of dust behind it. That should be Jane returning from work, but there were two people in the car. Suddenly alert, he slid quickly out of the hammock and moved towards the front door of the house as the car came to a stop. He was half behind the door when he saw Jane get out of the passenger's side.

A human woman easily a head taller than Jane unfolded herself from behind the wheel. She was one of the dark-skinned types the humans referred to as "black", although as far as he could see, they were mostly shades of brown.

Jane took a grocery sack from the car and headed for the porch, followed by the other woman. Francis moved out of the way and held the door open for them as if that had been his intention all along. Jane smiled at him brightly as she hurried past. The black woman stared at him for a second longer than was necessary. He would almost have sworn she was appraising him by some unknown standard of her own.

Her hair was short and very curly, fitting her head like a dark cap. it made her look almost Tenctonese, without all that excess of messy hair most humans cultivated and arranged into grotesque patterns.

He followed the two women into the kitchen.

"Francis, this is my friend, Pat Fisher," Jane said as she pulled items out of the grocery bag. "Pat, Francis Bernardone, the one I told you about. "

"Pleased to meet you," the black woman replied, extending a hand.

Francis took the preferred hand, being careful not to squeeze it too hard. "I am glad to meet you also."

"Pat came and picked me up when my car wouldn't start," Jane explained, making a wry face. "That's the third time this month the darn thing's broken down. You'd think the humans could build their machines better."

"What do you want from that old wreck you drive?" Pat asked cheerfully. "They're not supposed to last forever, you know."

"Believe me, if we could afford another one, we'd get it."

"Probably just needs a new battery. If we had jumper cables, I could --"

"There's a set in my van," Francis interrupted. "You're welcome to borrow them."

"Great! C'mon, let's go pick up that old heap of yours."

Jane laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Can't we do that tomorrow? I'm kind of beat. I'd just like to relax, have a quiet supper and get a good night's sleep."

Pat covered the hand with her own. "Sure, honey. I forgot about last night. Tell you what. I'll drive you to work tomorrow morning, okay? I'm on the morning shift at the motel all week myself, so it's no problem."

"Wouldn't it just be easier for Jane to take my van?" Francis suggested.

A brief flicker of annoyance crossed Pat's face, gone almost before Francis was sure he'd seen it. Then she smiled broadly. "Yes, of course. We can go get the car tomorrow afternoon."

"There's no rush. You're welcome to use the van for a couple of days." Francis hadn't realized until the words were already out of his mouth that he planned to stay that long. Well, why not? Richard had invited him, however grudgingly.

Pat's smile faded slightly, but Jane seemed genuinely pleased. "That would be great. I'll make up the spare bedroom for you."

He hadn't expected quite so enthusiastic a response, all things considered. "Not so fast," he said, holding up one hand. Pat's eyes flickered to his wrist, but he tried not to notice. Maybe she didn't know what the tattoo meant. "I won't stay here unless you agree to one thing."

Jane cocked her head inquiringly. "Oh?"

"You've got to let me pay for the food." 

"That's not necessary. We can --"

"I insist. If not, I'll leave tomorrow."

"Well, since you put it that way, it's a deal."

Pat hadn't said anything, but Francis felt her watching him throughout the entire transaction. There was something strange in the way the black woman looked at Jane, a tenderness and caring he was not accustomed to seeing in the eyes of a human. But there was more to it than simple friendship, he was sure of that.

"You'll stay for dinner, Pat?" Jane went on. "I owe you that, for the ride."

"Honey, you don't owe me anything, but I'd be glad to stay." Her face split into a wide grin. "If you'll let me cook my own hamburger, that is."

Both women laughed. Francis got the feeling it was a long-standing joke between them.

Listening to their laughter, he felt very conscious of their youth. Pat appeared to be several years older than Jane, but from his vantage point, they were both hardly more than children. Although he was barely middle-aged himself -- Eighty-one isn't very old, after all -- they seemed terribly young in comparison.   
Jane opened the refrigerator, handing out a carton of milk and a beer. "Now, why don't you two go sit on the porch while I get supper started? I'll join you in a few minutes."

"You got a deal. I hate cooking." Pat headed for the door. "C'mon, Francis. We're not wanted here."

"Oh, but I don't think Jane meant to make us feel unwelcome," he protested.

Pat rolled her eyes expressively, grabbed his arm, and pulled him after her, shaking her head. "Oh, brother! Why didn't they teach you guys slang while they were at it, instead of just proper English?"

He must have missed something again. With the possible exception of human concepts of humor, idiomatic expressions seemed to be the hardest things for most newcomers to grasp.

Out on the porch, Pat threw herself full-length into the hammock, draping one leg over the side and rocking herself as she tipped the beer can up to her mouth. "Man, this beer tastes great! Really hits the spot."

Francis did not ask her which of the spots on his head she thought it hit. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He perched on the porch railing, listening to the chirrup of insects in the shade of a patch of trees not far away. A small airplane flew by in the distance. By the sound, it was a jet. By the size and shape, some sort of fighter plane. it wasn't the first one he had noticed in this area. There must be a military base not far away.

Pat interrupted his musings. "Francis Bernardone, huh? Not Frank or Fran?"

"No. I prefer Francis."

She shook her head. "Now, why does that name sound familiar?"

He didn't reply. If she didn't know, he wasn't about to tell her. He'd never yet met a human who'd recognized it.

"Ah, I've got it!" she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. "St. Francis of Assisi, right? Bernardone was his last name."

This time he was too surprised to respond.

Pat shook her head and said something that sounded like "Um, um, um". He had no idea how to translate that literally, but it seemed to be an expression peculiar to this area of the country, usually meaning something like, "Well, doggone! How about that?"

"They sure saddled you folks with some weird names," she went on. "Would you believe one of Jane's friends is called Mason Dixon? But then, maybe you wouldn't recognize the reference "

"I have heard of the Mason-Dixon line."

Her black eyes studied him again. "You knew about St. Francis too, didn't you?"

"I looked it up. He seems to have been a most interesting person. But how did you recognize it? His last name is not common knowledge among humans."

She took another swallow of beer. "My mom sent me to a Catholic Bible School for a couple of summers when I was a kid. Cheaper than daycare, back then. It was run by Franciscan sisters and we read this little book about St. Francis.'' She flashed him a bright smile. "Do you talk to birds too?"

"No, I --"

"Francis, I'm only teasing. Don't be so serious."

He drank some of his milk. This human was interesting. He decided he rather liked her.

She shifted position in the hammock, sitting up and letting the amusement fade from her face. "So, you've met the local White Knights, eh?"

"You mean the people in sheets?"

"Yeah." She took another swig of beer. "You know, I remember my mother telling me about some of the stuff they did before I was born. They burned a cross on our lawn once."

"Why were they bothering your family? You're not a newcomer."

"Honey, you don't have our history down too good. The Klan was after black folks long before you all arrived." She lay back again and gave the hammock a push with her leg. "Momma was too uppity. She was one of the first to go into the white restaurants and all, after segregation was made illegal."

"Then why was one of the people who attacked us last night black?"

"Really?! Are you sure?" Pat sat abruptly upright in the hammock, frowning at him intently.

Francis nodded.

"Somehow, I find that even more upsetting than if they'd all been white. But I guess it's only to be expected, nowadays. Since you newcomers arrived, things have gotten easier for blacks. After all, we may be the wrong color, but we're still human. South Africa ended apartheid a year after your ship landed. Voluntarily, too. Who'd have imagined that, ten years ago?" She shook her head, taking another swallow of beer. "But back to last night. You're absolutely sure one of them was black?"

"Oh, yes. He was the one using the whip."

"What did he look like?"

Francis shrugged, then immediately regretted the motion, as it sent fresh pain across his back.

"Like any other human in a sheet. I couldn't see his face. I only know he was like you because of his hands."

"Could you tell anything else about him? For instance, are you sure it was a man? Did you hear his voice?"

"No. But of the people who spoke, there was only one woman."

"Then why do you think it was a man?

"If you were going to have someone whipped, would you give the whip to a man or a woman?"

"Good point."

"Besides, he was taller than I am."

"That's not saying much. You're not particularly tall."

Francis almost shrugged again, but caught himself in time.

"He was the biggest one of the group. Also, on the heavy side. Not really fat, but what you might call stocky, if I've got the word right."

"What color were his hands?"

"Black. I already told you that."

"No, I mean how black? Darker than I am? Lighter?"

Francis considered that. Pat's skin was the color of dark chocolate, but he'd seen humans in many other shades. "Well, it was nighttime, remember. But I'd say pretty close to your color."

Pat gave a satisfied nod. "Okay. That leaves us with several possibilities."

"Possibilities for what?"

"Not that kind of possibility, Francis. I mean I know several people he might be, just based on what you've said. One of them is a Baptist minister, so I think we can rule him out right off. He's too dogmatically religious for my liking, but he'd never condone that sort of violence. The others who fit that description are mostly ordinary folks. Of course, I don't know everyone in the local black community, so it could easily be someone else entirely." She shrugged. "Now, what about the others? Can you remember anything about them?"

"I can remember a lot about them. What would you like to know?"

"Everything. Maybe we can figure out who these bastards are." She drained her beer can, then crushed it negligently in one hand.

"Would that do any good?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd sure like to know. Wouldn't you?"

He never had a chance to answer that, since Jane appeared at the door to tell Pat it was time to come fry her hamburger.

When the black woman had gone into the house, Francis stared after her thoughtfully. "Your friend is an interesting person."

"She sure is," Jane agreed enthusiastically. "Do you know, she's the first human Richard and I met when we came here? We stayed at the motel where she works the night we arrived, before we met the Dixons and were invited to share their house while we looked for one of our own. She was on duty at the front desk and seemed so friendly and helpful, even though we could see her boss frowning at her all the while. We've been friends ever since." Jane gestured vaguely to her left. "She lives down the road a piece, in a house she inherited from her mother. She's all alone. No husband, no children. Isn't that a shame?"

"Um," he replied noncommitally.

 

Francis hardly dared admit it, but he was enjoying himself. After several days spent recuperating, he offered to make himself useful. Each day after Jane left for the daycare center, he and Richard worked at clearing the brush from the far edges of the yard. There seemed no end of work to do, but it was nice to be outdoors, despite the heat and humidity of early summer and the insects that swarmed around and sometimes stung. 

The property had once been part of a farm, but it had been left to grow wild for many years. Most of the trees were second growth, but they had reached a respectable size. While Richard had no intention of removing the trees, or even of destroying the undergrowth and turning all five acres into lawn, he did want to get rid of the catbrier vines that had engulfed everything in their thorny grip and just generally clear away dead wood and other debris.

The banks of the small creek that cut across the far corner of the property were adorned with piles of old roofing shingles, a few rusting appliances, worn out tires, and even a rotting sofa, amongst other kinds of trash.

*See that mess?* Richard said disgustedly. *This was used as a dumping ground until I fenced off the path leading in from the main road.*

*Maybe I could clear out the back of my van and we could haul this stuff to the county landfill,* Francis suggested.

Richard brightened a bit at that, but then his face resumed its usual melancholy expression. *What's the use? We're only going to have to sell out and leave anyway.*

*As soon as my back is a little better, we'll clean it up,* Francis declared positively. Richard didn't argue.

 

It was entirely different from the rootless life Francis had been leading. Jane's company was quite pleasant, and he was beginning to feel comfortable with Pat. Sitting on the porch with them and watching the sun go down was his favorite part of the day. His back was healing well and the exercise made him more relaxed than he had been in years.

Ten days went by before Francis knew it. Soon the month of June would come to an end and summer would begin in earnest, when the tourists started arriving at the nearby beach towns.

Early the following week, he noticed that Pat, who never wore any jewelry, had an enamel pin on her collar. Every time he saw her that week, it was still there: a small pink triangle, point down. On Friday, his curiosity got the better of him. It was her day off, so they were driving to the shopping center in her car to do some food shopping when he finally asked about it.

She sucked in a sudden breath, then let it out slowly. still staring straight ahead at the road, she replied, "Francis, I'm gay."

That didn't seem to have any relation to what he had asked. What difference did it make to him if she was carefree and happy? He almost said as much when he recalled that the word had an alternate meaning. Ah! Those who loved people of the same sex. That made more sense, but he was still confused. "So what does that have to do with the pin?"

"The pink triangle is the symbol for the Gay Liberation movement. This is Gay Pride Week. I can't get off from work to go to the march in Willemton, but I promised myself I'd wear the pin all week instead."

"Other humans will understand what it means?"

"Some of them will." Her full lips thinned as she clamped them together grimly. "Too many Americans like gay people about as much as they like newcomers, but for different reasons."

"You humans are strange sometimes. Why should anyone care who you choose as a partner?"

"There are a lot of reasons, but they might not make much sense to you. Just take it from me: they care. Why, until just last year, it was against the law in this state."

"You're kidding!?"

"I wish I were."

"Do you have a partner? I mean, I've never seen you with anyone --"

She looked away. "No, I have no one right now. The only person I really care about -- well, never mind that. She couldn't love me anyway, so it's not important "

Things he'd only half noticed before clicked into place. "You're talking about Jane, aren't you?"

"No! Whatever made you think that? How could I -- I mean, she's not gay. I'd never --"

"It's Jane."

She pulled into the parking lot and found a space. Removing the key from the ignition, she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked at him. "Yeah, it's Jane. She's such a sweet kid, so kind and thoughtful. And she never treats me like -- well, you know. Like I was different.”

That sounded like Jane. She'd never yet said a word to him about being an Overseer either. But there was a problem.

"Jane is married."

"I know, and I'd never do anything to hurt her. That includes telling her how I feel. As far as Jane knows, we're just friends, and that's all I ever intend us to be. I'm not even sure if she knows about me. I haven't made a point of telling her I'm gay, but I don't keep it a secret either."

She reached for his hand. "You won't tell her how I feel about her, will you? Please! Promise me you won't. I don't want to lose her as a friend. Francis, you've got to believe me! I'll never hurt her. Never!"

"If anyone tells her, it won't be me. I promise."

*Thank you,* she said in mangled Tenctonese. Giving his hand a grateful squeeze, she let go and hopped out of the car. "C'mon, let's go see what's on sale today."

 

On the way home, Pat slowed down the car as they were passing through a densely wooded area. She turned to Francis and asked, "Want to see my impossible dream? It's just a short ride down that road on the left."

"If you wish," he replied, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.

Pat turned, ignoring the sign that read "Private Property, Keep out". Although it was paved, the road was bumpy and partly overgrown, obviously not well-used.

Suddenly, the road swept around a curve and the trees gave way to open ground. Sunlight glistened off water directly ahead. A lot of water. The curve continued around almost into a hairpin. Francis automatically stepped on a non-existent brake and braced himself against the dashboard.

"Relax," Pat said. "I've driven out here lots of times. I won't land us in the water."

She didn't, but Francis didn't truly relax until the road had straightened out again and begun paralleling the riverbank. As he looked back, he could see that the curve marked a place where an old dirt road joined the paved section. That had probably been the original road from town, before the highway had been built further inland. Perhaps a mile down the river, the bridge leading to Cartersville was clearly visible in the afternoon haze. This was the Yaupon River, then. He remembered it from the map.

He was so engrossed in watching the river that he almost failed to notice the sign on the other side of the street. Overgrown with vines and half obscured by the vegetation in front of it, it nevertheless proclaimed proudly, "WELCOME TO THE ATLANTIC INN".

Magnolia trees filled with fragrant white blossoms lined the road from there on. It swept in an elongated circle past the front of a long two-story building, with small parking areas nestled at various places under the trees. Broken windows and peeling paint told the story of a building that had seen better days. Where there had once been gardens, a few straggly flowers fought a losing battle with the weeds. An empty swimming pool sat forlornly in the middle of the oval formed by the road. The sign marking the office had lost one of its screws and hung crookedly down over the door.

"What do you think?" Pat asked, pulling the car up to the entrance. Not waiting for an answer, she went on, "Get out and I'll show you around."

He opened the car door and stepped out. "It's -- uh -- not in very good shape, is it?"

"Oh, it would take a lot of work," she admitted, "but I could make it into a wonderful place. The property includes most of the land from here to the highway, plus almost a mile along the riverbank. The Inn itself has 40 guest rooms, plus a manager's apartment. There are also five cottages out in back that could be rented. It was a fancy place once."

"That must have been some time ago."

Pat nodded, her enthusiasm not the least bit dimmed as she led him across an overgrown lawn and around the side of the building. A short wing, obviously a later addition, angled down towards the river.

"It's structurally sound," she went on. "I asked a carpenter friend of mine to come out and look it over. It would need some repairs, but mostly cosmetic work. I could make it a going concern, Francis. I know I could. I've got an angle. You see, on the upriver side, it adjoins the White Oak National Forest, so that will never be developed. Downriver there's a saltmarsh, partly on this property but mostly not. That can't be built up either, due to the Wetlands Conservation Act. The tourists will love it."

"Pat, no one's interested in a saltmarsh." Just the thought of using such a thing as a tourist attraction appalled him.

"That's what you think. The Willemton Aquarium has a hiking trail through theirs. It draws something like a half million visitors a year."

Francis shuddered at the thought. Humans did strange things for recreation, but he hadn't realized they liked to walk in saltmarshes.

They rounded the far end of the building and he found himself uncomfortably close to the river, which washed up against a low wooden seawall. He stopped short, but Pat continued walking.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"You said there's a saltmarsh. Is that saltwater?"

"Maybe. The river hits the ocean just a little further along. Probably depends on the tide. Wait a minute and I'll find out."

She walked over to the wall, stooped down, and dipped her hand in the water. Then she licked her fingers.

"Yeah, tastes pretty salty to me. Guess you don't want to come over here and look at the view, do you?"

He shook his head. She came back and they continued around the building.

"No one would want to stay here," he said positively. "Why, I'll bet you even have to look at the river from most of the rooms on this side."

She laughed. "Francis, I wasn't planning to advertise this as a Tenctonese resort. Humans will love it."

He didn't look entirely convinced.

"You don't get it, do you?" she went on. "What I'd do is market the Inn as a place for naturalists' vacations. We'd have lectures on marine ecology, bird-watching walks, canoe trips up the river, stuff like that. Ecology is a big thing nowadays. People would come to learn, not just to sit in the sun until their skins are fried. We're close enough to the beaches that we'd draw some of that trade, of course. But most people would come to stay right here. There could be field trips to museums, historical talks by some of the locals who remember the old days. There's so much I could do to make this into a popular resort." Her enthusiasm faded. "If I had the money to buy it, that is. Even if I sold my house, I could barely cover half the down payment."

She shook her head. The bright dream she'd conjured up turned back into weeds, dust, and peeling paint as they approached their car from the opposite direction.

As she fell silent, Francis looked around. It was indeed a lovely and peaceful location, if you didn't mind the proximity of the river. Given enough money, what Pat described did seem like a possibility.

"That would be quite an enterprise," he said carefully. "Do you think you could handle such a thing?"

"I've got a college degree in Hotel and Restaurant Administration," she replied, almost as if he'd insulted her by asking such a question. "I should be managing a motel, not working behind the front desk." Then she sighed. "But management jobs are hard to come by around here, especially if your skin is the wrong color."

"You should go somewhere else where you'd have more opportunities.''

She shook her head. "This is where I grew up and, like Jane and Richard and their friends, this is where I want to call home." Casting a wistful glance over the main building, she removed her sunglasses and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. "Well, no use crying over what you can't have. Let's get going. Jane'll be home by now."

As they got back into the car, Francis did some mental arithmetic. If half the down payment on the Inn was equivalent to the price of an average house in this area, he had enough money to make the entire down payment himself.

He dismissed such an absurd notion with an impatient frown. Why on earth would he even think of such a thing? He had no interest in owning a dilapidated inn on the shore of a salt-infested river. It was only Pat's enthusiasm that had made him entertain such a ridiculous idea in the first place.

The sound of the car doors slamming sent up a flurry of birds from the trees. Pat took the curve at a slower speed this time. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

 

Almost a week later, Francis sat contentedly on the screened-in section of porch with Jane, watching the rain fall steadily from a darkening sky.

*Richard wanted me to go into town and list our house with a real estate agent today,* Jane said softly. *I couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't want to leave.*

*Even considering the Klan?*

Her lips drew together into a grim line. *Especially considering the Klan,* she said. *This is my home. This is where I want to live.*

*There are other places. Safer places.*

She stood up abruptly and walked over close to the screen, where water sheeted down from the overflowing gutters. *You sound like Richard,* she said bitterly. She turned to face him. Suddenly, she didn't seem young and vulnerable anymore. There was a fierceness to her eyes and a taut resolution in her voice. *I'm through with being scared and I'm through with being intimidated. By anyone. Do you understand?*

Brave words. How long would they hold up, if put to the test? he wondered.

*I want to stay here,* she went on. *I want to raise my children here.*

*You don't have any children,* he pointed out reasonably.

*I could have. I'm almost into my first cycle.*

*Do you plan to conceive?* 

*No, damnit, I don't!* She turned back to the rain, crossing her arms angrily on her chest.

That sort of response was not quite what he'd expected. Reminding himself that he might well be sliding on thin ice, as the humans put it, Francis kept his mouth shut. If Jane wanted to talk about it, she could, but it might be best if he didn't pry.

*Richard thinks we should wait,* she went on, more calmly now. *Besides, the nearest Binnaum Order is located way up north in a place called New York. We don't have the money to go there. Even if we did, we couldn't both get off from work long enough. And we could hardly ask someone to come all that way, just for us.* She gave a heavy sigh. *Maybe next time things will be better. We'll try again then. Besides, we've got enough trouble here, without a child to worry about. At least that's what Richard says.*

*Is that how you feel about it?* 

She shook her head. *I'd like to start our family right away, even though we've agreed we'll only have two. All day long, I work with human children. They're nice, but I'd really like my own.*

*Aren't there any Tenctonese kids in daycare?*

*No. Mostly just couples or single people have moved here so far. Very few of them have had children.*

*For the same reasons you just gave me?*

*Yes.* She turned around to face him, her arms falling to her sides. She almost said something, but then she blinked and looked away.

No, don't let her ask me. Please!

She didn't have to ask. He could see the question in her face, but she was trying so hard not to put it into words.

Francis stood up and turned away.

*Did I say something wrong?* Her voice sounded like a little girl lost in the darkness that was falling softly around them.

*No.* He turned back to face her. *Tell me something?*

She nodded.

*Why have you never so much as mentioned my being an Overseer? In all the time I've been here, you've never brought it up. Why?*

*I'll answer that if you tell me why you provoked the Klan leader into having you whipped in place of me.*

Her response took him entirely aback. When he didn't answer, she went on, *Oh, Richard refuses to admit that's what happened, but I know better. Why?* 

*I -- uh -- I just thought you'd both had enough,* Francis managed to stammer. *If they'd whipped you, Richard might have done something rash. I didn't want to see you both get killed.*

*Why not? We're nothing to you. On the ship, you could have ordered our deaths. Why did you risk your life for us?*

*I didn't, really.*

*You did,* she persisted. Then she smiled. *You can't answer my question, can you? That's all right.*

She took a step closer to him and raised one hand as if she were going to try to touch it to his temple. When he drew back, she frowned slightly and abruptly changed her gesture, laying her hand flat on his chest. *I'll answer yours anyway. As far as I'm concerned, it's what's in your hearts that counts, not what's on your wrist.*

Francis flinched at her words, but forced himself not to pull away from her. Such a response was not something he had met with often. He was just beginning to see the depths that lay behind this young woman's cheerful exterior.

*If you truly want a child, I could help.* He hadn't realized he was going to say it until the words were already out.

She dropped her hand. *Thanks, Francis. I appreciate that. But we're strict Celinists. Richard would never agree to do it without the proper ritual.*

He hadn't figured on that. *I know the ritual,* he said hesitantly. *I've never done it that way, but I was taught how.*

Hope flared in her eyes, but died away quickly. *I don't think Richard would even consider such an arrangement.*

*Talk with him, Seliessa. If he doesn't agree, it will be as if we had never spoken of it. All right?*

She smiled and nodded.

Now what had he gotten himself into?

 

Richard was neither pleased by nor grateful for his offer. He was furious.

Francis had gone to bed early, leaving Jane to wait up for her husband. He was already asleep when Richard shoved the bedroom door open, crossed the small room in a few strides, and grabbed Francis by the front of his pajamas, yanking him out of bed and pushing him up against the wall.

*How dare you?!*

*Richard, it was not my intention to offer offense. Jane said she wanted to have a child --*

The other man didn't let him finish. *Not here, not now, and not with you.* 

*That wasn't what she said.* 

By this time, Jane was in the room and trying to pry her husband's hands loose. *Let go of him. He didn't do anything.*

*Oh no, of course not. He's entirely innocent. He just wears that tattoo for decoration.* Richard lifted him almost off his feet and slammed him into the wall again. Francis winced as his shoulder hit the wall, but he didn't offer any resistance.

*Stop it! You'll hurt him!*

*Good,* the young man replied, too calmly.

*Richard, what's gotten into you? You know we mustn't ever attack a binnaum.*

*He's an Overseer.*

*Not anymore,* Jane persisted. *And right now, you're acting more like one than he is.*

*Jane, face reality. You know full well that the Overseers are still working against us, and against everything that's good and decent in this world. What makes you think this one is any different?*

*He is. That's all.*

*That's not good enough for me.* Richard's eyes narrowed. *How about it, pal? Are you going to try to tell me you walked off the ship and suddenly became a new person?*

*No,* Francis replied. *It took several years before I decided there were other possibilities open to me. I know what the Overseers are doing. I am no longer affiliated with them in any way.*

*Oh? And what did you do before you quit?*

*You don't have any right to ask me that. What I did, why I did it, and why I stopped doing it, is not your business.*

*I'm making it my business.*

Francis shook his head. *You cannot.*

*Richard, he just told you he's not part of that anymore,* Jane pointed out. *Isn't that enough for you?*

*It's enough to keep me from tearing him into very small pieces with my bare hands. It's not enough to make me like him, or to make me want him involved with our children.*

Jane moved around behind her husband. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she snuggled against him. *You're acting like a human male. If we had a child, it would be ours. You know it doesn't make any difference who the binnaum is.*

*Not even if he is an Overseer?*

*Was an Overseer, dear,* she corrected.

Richard tried to shrug her off. *Same thing.*

*No,* Francis said quietly. "Not unless you're still a slave?*

For a moment, he thought Richard was going to attempt to make good on his threat to tear him to pieces. The young man's hands twisted the fabric of Francis' pajamas tighter around his neck and his eyes flared hatred. Richard was trying hard to get control of himself, struggling against a murderous rage. Francis devoutly hoped he'd win the battle because he didn't want to have to defend himself against this tormented youngster.

With a strangled moan, he pulled Francis away from the wall and threw him towards the bed. Richard sank into a chair, covering his face with his hands, as Francis caught his balance before he could fall backwards, sitting down cross-legged on the rumpled sheets.

*Andarko!* Richard whispered faintly. *I might have killed you.*

You might have tried, Francis thought, but said nothing aloud.

Jane stroked the sides of her husband's head. *It's okay, it's okay,* she murmured.

After a moment, he caught her hands in his own. *No, it's not okay. I shouldn't have done that. Any of that.* He took a deep breath and looked at his wife. *You really want this, don't you?*

*Yes. We're going to stay here and make this our home,* she replied firmly. *We're going to raise a family here. One way, or another.*

He finally looked over at Francis, his blue eyes troubled. *Have I just scared you off?* he asked.

*I don't scare easily.*

That was the wrong thing to say. Richard's eyes turned hard again. Then he looked back at Jane, putting an arm around her waist. *If it's what you want, darling, all right.* He glanced up at Francis. *But that doesn't mean I like it. You understand?*

*Yes.*

 

The following morning, Francis decided he might better keep out of Richard's way. Besides, he wanted to find out a couple of things. Getting directions from Jane before she left for work, he set off in his van for the Cartersville public library shortly before the time when Richard usually got up.

The town was almost ten miles away. He was approaching the outskirts of Cartersville when the drawbridge loomed before him, its low concrete sides seeming but fragile protection from the water below. This was the mouth of the Yaupon River, only a short distance from the sea. If he went over the side --

He almost panicked and jammed on the brakes before he could reach the bridge. Then he forced his foot back onto the accelerator. Nonsense. This was perfectly safe. He wasn't going over the edge. Besides, it wasn't much more dangerous for him than it would be for the humans and they drove across all the time. If one of their cars plunged into the water, they would drown. Perhaps a little less painful than what would happen to him, but just as deadly.

Fixing his eyes on the far shore and gripping the wheel too tightly, he kept going. Fortunately, the section of the bridge that could swing sideways to allow boats to go through showed no signs of wanting to open just then.

The downtown section of Cartersville was on Yaupon Sound, with row upon row of docks filled with pleasure boats. Front Street ran along behind the docks, crowded with people and garish with gift shops, seafood restaurants, and other essentials of the tourist trade.

Mercifully, the library was located several blocks back from the waterfront. Francis parked in the lot. Taking off his sunglasses, he briefly considered putting on the wig he kept in the van. Along with his reading glasses, it was an effective disguise that he'd often used in his travels, making it just that much more difficult for anyone to track him down.

He decided against it. After all, for the past six months he'd had no reason to believe anyone was after him. It seemed dishonest and cowardly to try to pass for human when such a thing really wasn't necessary. He slid his reading glasses into his pocket because he'd need them, but he left the wig behind.

Getting out of the van, he strode around the library building to the door, only glancing once down the street at the expanse of saltwater glistening in the late morning sun. He shivered despite the heat, entering the building with relief.

Why would any newcomers want to live this close to the sea, if they had a choice? 

Recalling himself to the reason for his visit, Francis looked around the library. Locating the encyclopedia section, he dug out all the volumes covering the letter K and started flipping pages.

All the articles agreed on the basics. The Ku Klux Klan began as a secret society in the South shortly after the end of the American Civil War. Its original purpose during the Reconstruction Era was to try to keep political power out of the hands of the newly freed and enfranchised blacks, using violence and various forms of intimidation. It was moderately successful in this endeavor, reaching the height of its power in the years between 1868 and 1871. As Reconstruction came to an end, the Klan lost its primary reason for existence. By 1877, it had been disbanded.

It reappeared again in 1915, as a fraternal organization devoted to perpetuating white supremacy. Although retaining the original name, it was essentially a new organization. This time, Roman Catholics, Jews, and foreigners joined blacks as targets for Klan terrorism. Its influence spread beyond the South, peaking in the early 1920's. After that, it began to wane. In 1944, the Klan was again officially disbanded when the federal government went after it for non-payment of back taxes.

Its third incarnation took place in 1946, as a result of increased civil rights for blacks and other minorities after World War II. The 1954 Supreme Court decision mandating school desegregation spurred it on, as did the passage of the Civil Rights Act ten years later. Although the federal government attempted several times to crack down on the Klan, it continued in existence throughout the 70's and 80's, with sporadic bombings, shootings, and murders, making common cause with various other white supremacist and neo-Nazi organizations.

That was as far as the encyclopedias went. Francis figured he could fill in the rest for himself. With the arrival of the newcomers, the Klan had chosen to forget past differences and spread to include all humans, in the face of the obvious threat presented by the aliens.

The Klan wasn't really much different from the Purists he'd encountered on the West Coast. This just happened to be the way the same prejudice was expressed against a different historical background.

He copied down the titles of three books listed in the articles then went looking for them on the shelves. Two weren't there, so he would have to ask Jane or Pat to reserve them for him, since he wasn't a local resident and therefore wasn't entitled to a library card. He found an old and very worn copy of "The Clansman" in the fiction section, so he sat down in a chair in a corner and started reading, trying to ignore the stares, angry looks, and occasional sotto voce comments his presence elicited from the other patrons.

He soon found himself so caught up in the author's blatantly virulent prose that everything else faded from his consciousness. Even the thunderstorm that swept in from the ocean barely disturbed him, except when the library lights flickered off for several seconds.

When he had finished, he closed the book, took off his glasses, and stared thoughtfully out the window at the clearing sky.

He could understand how such an organization could come to exist, especially in the beginning. He could even understand the particular fears and insecurities it fed on, in each time period when the Klan reappeared. But humans never seemed able to stop this sort of bigotry. He'd read of many other similar occurrences. You'd think they'd learn and take steps to prevent it, but no. It happened over and over again throughout their history.

Treyma, he scolded himself, enough of this. Humans have no monopoly on evil, and you of all people have no right to play holier-than-thou.

Replacing the book on the shelf, he left the library and headed home.

 

It was early July when they finally got around to clearing the junk away from the creek on one of Richard's rare days off. Pat was off also, so she lent a hand, mostly by gathering up the smaller stuff while the two much stronger newcomers handled the heavy items. After five trips to the dump, they were all exhausted, sweat-soaked, and filthy, but the worst of the trash was gone.

They had barely gotten back to the house and cleaned up when Richard's beeper went off.

"Great," he said, hanging up the phone. "There's been an accident on Highway 28. A couple of newcomers were involved, so I've got to go to the hospital to check on them."

"Anyone badly hurt?" Pat asked, still drying her hair with a towel.

"Doesn't sound like it. More of a bumper-folder than anything else."

"Fender-bender is the proper term, I think," Francis corrected softly.

Pat punched him lightly on the arm. "Hey, you got one right for a change!"

"Uh -- thanks." 

If he got it right, why had she struck him? Strange.

"Well, whatever you call it, I've got to get going," Richard said. "Tell Jane I may be late for dinner."

"Don't worry, she'll be late too. Staff meeting today, remember? Those things go on forever."

After Richard left, Pat and Francis went out on the porch. The afternoon had turned cloudy, but it wasn't raining yet.

Pat picked up a magazine and began fanning herself with it. "Whew! If the humidity gets any higher, we'll be needing scuba tanks just to breathe!" She looked at Francis and shook her head. 

"Aren't you roasting in that shirt? I mean, I'm about ready to melt and I've hardly got anything on." She gestured at her halter top and brief shorts.

"I'm okay."

"You got something against T-shirts?"

"Yes. They don't have long sleeves."

She thought about that for a minute, then decided not to pursue the subject.

He sat down in the hammock, flexing his right arm and rotating his shoulder in an effort to relieve the ache.

"You okay?" Pat asked.

"It's nothing. Guess I should have taken it easier while we were moving all that trash."

Pat pulled her chair over next to him. "Let me massage it a little and loosen up the muscles before they get stiff."

"Oh, you don't have to --"

His half-hearted protest was ignored. Her hands were already on his shoulder, her strong fingers kneading expertly.

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you." Then, after a minute. "Is this what you call relaxing? You're stiff as a board."

He still didn't say anything, but he tried to focus on loosening the muscles in his damaged shoulder.

"That's a little better. Someday maybe you'll tell me how this happened, huh?"

"The bullet entered from the front, broke two ribs, then fractured the scapula on the way out. An inch lower and it would have hit my lung," he said matter-of-factly. "My shoulder blade's held together with pins. The doctors said I'd be lucky to be able to use the arm at all."

"That's what happened. I asked how."

He stiffened almost visibly under her hands.

"Guess I asked the wrong question. Maybe you won't tell me. Don't worry about it. Curiosity may have killed the cat but it doesn't hurt us humans."

"Killed a cat? When did that happen?"

"Never mind. I just mean I won't ask again. Let's talk about something else." Taking her own suggestion, Pat let her voice drift into a lighter tone. "You know, I used to have trouble telling you people apart. Never realized how much we depend on hairstyles to recognize each other. It was kind of hard at first, but then I figured out the trick. Instead of just looking at your faces, I go by the size and pattern of spots also. You, for instance, have relatively few roundish spots along with a number of squiggles, while Richard has a lot of rather jagged spots running front to back. Some people have one particular odd-shaped spot I can recognize them by. Females tend to have smaller and more numerous spots than males. Once I got the hang of it, I never got anyone mixed up again."

"I'm surprised more of the other humans haven't figured that out by now."

"Oh, some of them have, but they may not know they're doing it." Still keeping her voice casual, she went on, "Jane invited me to some kind of a ceremony next week."

"That's nice. Will you be able to attend, or will you have to work?"

"I'm not sure. I'm still deciding if I really want to be there. She told me what happens."

This time it was her turn to give away her feelings involuntarily. Her fingers tightened on his upper arm, digging in harder than was necessary.

Francis jumped to a conclusion and decided to test its accuracy. "You're jealous of me."

"No, I'm not. That's ridiculous." She stopped short. "Well, yeah. I guess I am. You get to make love to her, while I can't."

"Love has very little to do with it. This is simply the way our females become pregnant."

"My mind understands, Francis. It's just my heart that doesn't. Don't worry, I'll get over it. It's not a problem. Really."

"Then you'll come?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Good. I just wish we could do it properly, though."

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well, there's stuff we should be wearing -- "

"Stuff?"

"Robes."

"No problem. I'm a whiz with a sewing machine. Make most of my own clothes, in fact. You just tell me what you want, or better yet, draw me a picture, and I can whip it up for you in no time. Unless it's something real fancy. That might take me longer."

"Well, not terribly elaborate."

"Fine. We can drive up to Willemton tomorrow. They've got some good fabric shops there." She went back to massaging his shoulder, the pained expression gone from her face. She seemed quite content now that she had found a way to contribute to Jane's happiness.

This was an extraordinary human indeed.

"Pat, why do you hang out with us?"

"You're my friends."

"Yeah. But you must take a lot of –- flak? Is that the word?"

She nodded, so he must have gotten it right.

"Aren't you afraid of the Klan?"

"Aren't you? And Jane and Richard and the others?"

"If we want to live here, we don't have a lot of choice. You do." 

She sat back in her chair, wiping the sweat from her face with a purple bandanna that hung from the waistband of her shorts.

"Jane and Richard have been real fine to me right from the moment they arrived. I was the one who told them this house was up for sale. Once we became practically neighbors, we just seemed to find ourselves together a lot. When my mother died last winter, Jane took time off from work just to stay with me. Momma and I were real close. I was in bad shape, but Jane just kept talking to me and holding me until I couldn't cry anymore. She encouraged me to tell her about all the good times Momma and I had had together." She stared into the distance, her eyes turning shiny and wet. "None of my human friends did as much for me. I don't forget people who treat me with kindness and decency." Her forehead creased into a frown. "And I don't desert them, either. I know how much real friends are worth these days. Some people don't know what anything's worth, if it can't be bought with money." 

Two jets flew over, the noise of their engines momentarily putting a stop to the conversation. They were vicious-looking things, but graceful in their own way. It must be quite interesting to fly something like that, Francis thought, but he never expected to have the opportunity.

After the jets were gone, Pat started making plans for what she would buy in Willemton tomorrow. By the time Jane got home, the black woman had converted Francis' rough sketches of the ceremonial robes into sewing patterns, complete with measurements and estimates of the amount and kinds of fabric she'd need. Francis just shook his head in amazement and watched her work things out. He couldn't have done that if his life depended on it.

She declared positively that she'd have everything ready by the time it was needed.

The week passed slowly but peacefully. On the night scheduled for the Presentation ceremony, an early evening thunderstorm lashed the countryside with its short-lived fury as people began arriving. The entire Tenctonese community had been invited, so if everyone showed up, the house would be overflowing. Pat had gotten there early, bringing a half dozen folding chairs she had scrounged from somewhere. She had helped set up everything for the expected visitors before cleaning up and changing into her good clothes for the evening.

The rain washed some of the humidity out of the air, but it was still going to be a hot night.

Francis paced back and forth in the hallway at the top of the steps, dressed in the one formal robe he owned. Perhaps only a few people would come. Or they'd all come, but they'd all hate him. They must know who he was, even though he'd met very few of the local newcomers in the time he'd been here.

Or maybe he'd do something wrong and they'd all think he was stupid. Or maybe he'd trip on his robe as he walked into the room. Or maybe --

*Celine!* he whispered to himself. *Enough, already! You know how to do this, even if you've never actually done it before. And besides, you really don't have to do much of anything tonight. Save the stage fright for tomorrow.*

He forced himself to stand still, listening to what was going on downstairs. Judging by the noise level, a good number of people had shown up. They weren't boycotting him, at any rate.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard Richard begin the ritual, then Jane's voice as she announced that they would now collect the seeds.

That wouldn't take long. He walked carefully down the dark stairway, waiting for his cue to enter the living room.

"At this time, we are honored and pleased to present the Third One, who has blessed us by consenting to be the Binnaum of our next child: Bin Treyma #Sendra."

Arranging his face into what he hoped was an expression of calm goodwill, Francis walked into the room -- and into a crowd of people he was sure would prefer to see him dead.

It was terribly silent as Jane touched the palm of her hand to his forehead. She smiled as if she were unaware of the cold hostility of most of the other newcomers, but that was certainly not true. She knew very well what she was doing.

Encouraged by her trust, Francis went around to the others. One or two faces seemed familiar, but he couldn't attach names to any of them. Except Pat, of course. She was the only human there. She touched his forehead just as the others did, with only a slight hesitation to betray her nervousness.

One couple's reaction nearly destroyed his composure right then and there. They were older, nearer to Francis' age than most of the other guests. The man was tall, with a body that showed a strength most of the younger people would have been hard put to match. They greeted him according to procedure, but as he walked away, he heard the woman whisper to her husband, *It is him, Dix.*

Francis couldn't catch the man's soft response, but he had seen the look on his face. They knew him from the ship. There was no other explanation. He sat down. To Francis' great dismay, when Jane introduced the guest who was to be honored by being the one to wash his feet, it was the man who had recognized him.

After that, things went from bad to worse. When the formalities were over and Jane tried to introduce him to Verna and Mason Dixon, the tall man turned on his heel and strode away. Alarmed, Jane hurried after him.

Dix's wife was not so rude, so Francis found himself standing alone with Verna. He had the insane urge to ask her what it was he had done to her on the ship, but he knew he couldn't possibly say that. In an effort to make polite conversation, he asked casually, "How did you and your husband come to move here, Ms. Dixon?"

She looked at him and hesitated for so long that he thought she wasn't going to answer at all, but she finally did.

"It was because of the name the humans gave my husband," she said, her voice cold. "After finding out what it referred to, he insisted on looking up all the information he could about the South." Gazing fondly in her husband's direction, Verna almost allowed herself to smile. "Dix is a regular Civil War buff. That's how he got it into his head that we had to live here, after we saw our youngest daughter married and on her own."

So far so good. Now what could he say? "Do you like it?"

"If the humans would leave us alone, I'd like it fine. But it's the same anywhere, unless we stay in our ghettoes. I guess it's to be expected."

She frowned and one delicate hand clenched into a fist. "But if I ever get my hands on the person who tossed a brick through our window, I'll see that he's in no shape to throw anything ever again. It smashed a lovely antique mirror that had been a gift from a dear friend."

"I'm sorry."

"I suppose I should be glad no one was hurt." Her voice was more natural now, as if she'd managed to forget who she was talking to. "If they'd attacked us the way they did Jane and Richard, I know Dix would have tried to fight back. He has a terrible temper."

"You don't fight bare-handed against automatic weapons."

"Dix would."

Then he would die, Francis thought grimly, but didn't say it aloud. Instead, he pointed out, "Don't the humans have a saying to the effect that discretion is the better part of valor?"

Verna almost smiled again, then caught herself. "Tell that to my husband." Her expression turned cold. "Are you planning to stay in this area?"

"No. I'm just passing through."

"But you've been here for over a month now. I thought perhaps you might be thinking of settling down permanently."

He shook his head. "I can't."

"Oh. Too bad." But her voice told him it wasn't too bad at all. He was wondering how to answer that when Pat appeared next to him. He introduced the two women and used their conversation as cover to slip away and go to the refreshment table set up in the hallway. He did his best to be inconspicuous, but it wasn't easy.

It was getting late and a few of the guests had left when he heard Jane's voice, uncharacteristically angry. He drifted over to where she stood with Richard near the front window, surrounded by a half dozen people.

*But we can't just leave,* Jane protested. *That's what they want us to do. Can't you see that?*

*If we stay, someone will get hurt. We have no choice,* a woman argued.

Jane objected. Someone else replied. Dix stood next to Richard, glowering. Jane spoke up again. Someone shouted her down. Richard whispered in her ear, frowning. She shook her head and pushed him away, saying sadly, *You're as bad as the rest.*

Francis could keep quiet no longer. He had to give Jane some support. *You're all still thinking like slaves if you're so ready to give up your homes without resistance.*

Everyone got quiet. Then Richard turned on him, blue eyes blazing. *How dare you say that? You don't know the first thing about being a slave.*

*No? Where do you think the Overseers come from?*

When no one said anything to that, Francis went on, *I knew someone once who told me that the strongest chains are the ones inside your head, because they continue to hold you even when your body is free.*

*Pretty words, Overseer,* Dix drawled, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. *But pretty words mean nothing without action to back them up. My wife tells me you don't plan to be here for long. You're nothing but a drifter. You don't have to live here and face what we face day after day. All you'll do is get us to stir up trouble, then you'll leave. So butt out.*

There were angry mutters of agreement from the others.

Francis didn't know how to answer that, since it was essentially true. He shouldn't have said anything. It was up to them to decided how to deal with the Klan, not him. And yet, their resentment hurt. Much to his own amazement, he realized he felt something for these people. He actually cared what happened to them. Could that be possible, after so many years of not caring what became of anyone but himself?

Panic edged into his mind. Long ago, he had learned not to care, at a cost he didn't want to think about. He must be just imagining things. Besides, it wasn't even a sincere emotion. If he truly did care, he wouldn't be planning to leave. He'd have to stay here and join in the struggle, and he couldn't do that, even if he wanted to. There were people who might catch up with him if he settled down.

He left the accusation unanswered and turned away. Pat grabbed his arm and asked what that had been all about. "Tell you later," he promised.

 

The following day took at least an eternity to pass. Early in the afternoon, Pat's car threw a plume of dust as it bounced up the dirt road to the house.

"Jane's not home from work yet," Francis said as he came down the stairs.

Pat was already in the living room. She pulled the dry cleaning bag off the robes and held them up, declaring proudly, "Ta-da! Here they are. What do you think?"

Francis squelched the flood of emotions that rose in his mind before anything could show on his face. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he inspected Pat's handiwork. "Beautiful. Exactly right."

She beamed at the praise, then held the red robe at arm's length in front of her. "This will look so nice on Jane, don't you think?"

"Uh -- well, yes. I suppose it will." 

He wasn't used to thinking in terms of it looking nice on someone. It was simply what the female was supposed to wear, that's all.

Something in his voice must have given away his nervousness, because Pat stared at him sharply for a moment before she draped the robes carefully over a chair. "What is it, Francis? You look as if you're scared to death of something."

"No. I'm just a little worried about -- how it's going to go tonight."

She smiled at him archly. "According to Jane, this isn't exactly the first time you've catalyzed a child."

"No, of course not. I've coupled with lots of females before, although not in the last few years." He dismissed that subject hurriedly, not daring to think about it too much. "But I've never tried to do it as it should be done, even though I learned the proper rituals long ago. Besides, I'm not really supposed to be doing this --"

He'd already said far more than he had intended, so he cut himself short.

"I think I understand." Pat laid one hand on his shoulder. "I saw the way people looked at you last night. To put it mildly, some of them don't much care for you, do they?"

"That's putting it mildly," he concurred.

"They should know better than to judge someone that way --"

He stopped her. "This is different, Pat. I truly am guilty of doing the things they hate me for."

"But --"

"There are no buts." He turned away from her, walking over to the window. "I'd like to be alone for a while. Okay?"

"Okay. See you tonight."

Her footsteps receded toward the door, then stopped. "Don't worry so much, Francis," she said softly. "You'll do fine. I know it."

Then she was gone and he was alone in the room, with the robes draped neatly over the chair next to him.

Was he really going to go through with this? Did he dare? He should never have agreed to it. It would have been just as effective in private. He should have refused. He should have –-

*Oh, come on, Treyma,* he muttered to himself. *If we're discussing "should have", you should have left the day after you got here. You can't run out on Jane and Richard now. It means a lot to them.*

Fool! a voice whispered softly in his mind. It means a lot to you too. Admit it.

*No. It's just that I promised -- *

Twice a fool, not to recognize your own feelings.

*All right!* he replied, exasperated with the conversation he was having with himself. *Yes, it means a lot to me. These young people like me. Why, they're even beginning to trust me! Why shouldn't I want to make them happy?*

Is that all? whispered the implacable voice.

*No, that isn't all,* Francis admitted softly, gathering the robes into his arms and trying not to look at the one he was going to be wearing. *But I don't have the right. I betrayed --*

The voice in his head took on an old woman's tone, a woman that he knew all too well, even though she had been dead for close to two years.   
Bin Treyma, the past is over. What are you now, today? And what do you wish to be tomorrow? That is all that truly matters.

Francis closed his eyes, his fingers tracing the pattern stitched  
into the robe. *This is what I wish to be, Kheersa,* he whispered brokenly. *I just don't know if I dare.*

Try, Bin Treyma. Try.

And the voice faded into silence.

*All right then, I will,* he replied with grim determination. *And may the Infinitely Holy have mercy on me.* 

He took the robes upstairs and laid them out on the bed. Then he seated himself carefully on the floor and tried to remember the meditation sequences he had been taught. After all those years, he wasn't very good at it.

By the time evening came, Francis was in a state of near panic, suppressed into the appearance of dead calm. He was sure he had done everything correctly thus far. He had put on the robe, but hadn't been able to look in the mirror. He had heard people arriving for the last half hour, so they must be about ready to begin the ceremony.

Floorboards creaked in the upstairs hallway. Jane rapped once on his door and said quietly, *Time, Francis. I'm going down now.* 

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Touching his hands to his hearts, he crossed them on his chest then touched his temples in the standard invocation sequence. That done, he pulled the hood up over his head and started out of the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, Pat stood waiting for him, holding a lighted candle. Since Jane and Richard had no children, she had been asked to escort him. She gave him a smile that outshone her candle, then stepped forward into the dimmed living room, saying clearly the Tenctonese phrase she'd probably been practicing all day: *Bid welcome to the Binnaum.*

People responded, but Francis didn't really hear them. Jane was lying on the bed, which had been placed in front of the back window. Richard looked very elegant in his white robe, but his face still showed his conflict over the entire situation.

Vastly relieved that his own emotions weren't written as clearly in his expression as Richard's were, Francis walked over to the other man and stood in front of him.

Whatever his misgivings, Richard said nothing. He reached up to lower the veil over Francis' face.

Suddenly a woman's voice cut through the silence, coming from outside the house: "Try screwing this, slags!"

There was a ripping sound as something came flying through the screen on the open window. It hit the bottom of the bed, bounced once, and landed next to Jane's head.

It took Francis barely a split second to recognize the object as a hand grenade. His mind hadn't fully processed that information before he began reacting. In one continuous motion, he scooped up the grenade in his right hand before it had fully come to rest and tossed it out the back window. He threw himself down on top of Jane, hoping to protect her from the blast.

Then the explosion shook the house. Glass shattered and flew around them. The room went completely dark as guests and candles were knocked to the floor.

As soon as the noise subsided, people were on their feet, checking on each other and stomping out flames from the few candles that had remained burning. Someone screamed shrilly. Others ran out the front door.

Francis lifted himself off of Jane as Richard picked himself up from the floor. The young man was cursing steadily under his breath.

*Easy,* Francis said. *It's all over. I don't think anyone was badly hurt.* 

Despite his effort to sound calm, he had started to shake. The realization of how close they had all come to being killed was only now working its way into his mind. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Pressing his fingers to his temples, he propped his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes. Summoning his usual image of star-filled space, Francis let the empty void suck the fear out of his mind.

Pat came over next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "You okay?" she whispered.

"I will be in a minute."

"How did you do that so fast? I'd still have been standing there staring at it and trying to figure out what to do."

Her voice destroyed his concentration, but he had control of himself now. He sat up straight.

"You have to learn to react without thinking. Besides, I can move faster than you can anyway," he added quickly, not wanting her to wonder exactly how he had learned to react that way.

Dix came back in the front door, followed by several others. *No one out there now,* he reported tersely to Richard. *I'm afraid that bomb blew some branches off your trees.*

*That's all right,* Jane said firmly. *It could have done a lot worse.* She was sitting up, the red veil knocked awry.

Someone struck a match and began lighting the surviving candles. Dix surveyed the flickering shadows. *Anyone hurt?*

*Nothing but cuts and bruises. Verna's got a nasty slash on her arm though,* a voice replied.

Richard went over and knelt by the injured woman, as Dix hurried after him. 

*There's a first aid kit in the kitchen,* Jane reminded them.

As things returned to normal, everyone looked around uncertainly at the mess of  
glass and toppled furniture. A few people began picking things up. 

Someone handed Richard the first aid kit and he began bandaging Verna's arm. *I knew we shouldn't have tried this,* he said softly, as if he were talking to himself. *I knew there'd be trouble.*

The muted background conversation whispered similar sentiments.

"Francis," Pat said very softly, "get up and do something. If you don't, this is going to fall apart."

"How do you know? You don't even understand what they've been saying."

"I don't have to. I can tell by the looks on their faces. They're scared. Come on. Get up."

He let her pull him to his feet. She was right. Couples clung to each other dazedly. Several people looked as if they were ready to head for the door. Dix glowered, whether at him or at the absent grenade thrower it was impossible to tell. Finished with Verna, Richard stood up and looked around as if he didn't know what to do next.

Francis smiled. As if it were an entirely ordinary action, he shook the dust and shards of glass off the skirt of his robe. *Where were we?* he said into the tense silence.

*You expect us to go on with this, after what's happened?* Richard demanded. 

*Of course. If we don't, we give the victory to the ones who attacked us. Isn't that so?*

He was looking at Richard, but his words were addressed to Dix and the others as well.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis could see Pat standing next to him, understanding nothing of what was being said, but trying to look proud and fierce and unintimidated, as if one hand grenade more or less was nothing to be bothered about.

It was Jane who tipped the balance. She rearranged her veil and laid back on the bed. *He's right, Richard. Let's get on with it. I'm ready.*

Richard nodded numbly and took his place next to her.

Francis looked over the disarrayed and bedraggled group of newcomers as they prepared to resume the ceremony. A tentative sort of determination had begun to replace the fear on their faces. Here and there, people threw back their shoulders and met his gaze with hope in their eyes.

Something hard and cold cracked in Francis' mind, and he was suddenly drowned in a rush of feeling for these people, feeling so intense it was almost like pain. He shuddered, wanting to curl up into a ball and press his fists to his temples.

As quickly as it had come, the intense surge of emotion ceased. But he remembered how it had felt, what he had realized in that brief time.

He wanted to see these people make it in their new homes, wanted to see their little community do well and prosper. He'd like to see their children grow up, free and happy on their own land. And he wanted to be a part of it, instead of a wandering stranger, always looking over one shoulder for the doom that might or might not catch up with him. He was sick of running.

So he decided to stop, whatever the consequences.

Richard's hand was shaking as he reached to lower the veil over Francis' face. Francis caught the other man's wrist before he could complete the motion. The sleeve of his robe had fallen back so that his Overseer's tattoo was clearly visible.

*Richard,* Francis said, *I’ll stay here, if you will.* Then he looked up, adding firmly, *All of you.*

He let go of Richard's hand, but made himself look unwaveringly into the other newcomer's deep blue eyes.

Your move, Richard. What's it going to be?

Richard looked down at his wife, searching for her eyes under the veil that obscured her face. After a long moment, he nodded. *I can't speak for anyone else, but Jane and I aren't going anywhere,* he said. Others agreed, tentatively at first, but then with growing assurance.

"I don't know what you said, but it worked," Pat whispered in Francis' ear.

"You know that motel you want to buy?" he whispered back. "There's a way we could do it. I'll talk to you about it later."

Her smile was blinding. "You got a deal." She stepped back and away, realizing everyone was staring at them now and waiting to proceed.

Richard's hand still shook as he lowered the veil in front of Francis' face, but the expression in his eyes was different now. Francis lay down next to Jane, trying to wash the remaining tension out of his thoughts so he could concentrate on the business at hand. As the others gathered around the bed, he banished all the night's events from his mind, letting only peace and clarity remain.

When they turned their backs, he turned to Jane.


	2. For Ye Were Strangers

FOR YE WERE STRANGERS

Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him:  
For ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.  
EXODUS 22:21  
BIBLE, King James Edition

 

"Francis, you can't go like that!"

"Why not? What's wrong?"

"The way you're dressed. We can't go to the real estate agent with you in a denim shirt and jeans." Pat shook her head in pained exasperation. Francis couldn't tell if she was truly angry or just amused.

"But this is the same way I usually dress," he protested.

"Not if you want to impress people with the fact that we're serious about buying the Atlantic Inn. Don't you have a suit and tie?'

"Actually, no. I think that sort of outfit looks funny."

She took his arm and started leading him back into the Wagners' house. "Come on. Let's see if we can fit you into one of Richard's suits."

"But Pat --"

She stopped and faced him, putting her hands on her hips. "No buts. Can't you see that I'm wearing a dress? I like that even less than you like a business suit, but I'm doing it. Once we own the Inn, we'll wear whatever we please, but we could be in for some difficult negotiations today. As a gay black woman and a newcomer trying to buy a business together, we need all the points we can get in our favor."

"Well, if you think it's really necessary," he replied grudgingly.

"It is. Come on."

Fifteen minutes later, they got into Pat's car. Francis ran a finger around his tight collar and grimaced. "Are you sure this will make a difference? I feel ridiculous."

"You look fine. Very handsome, as a matter of fact. Just be careful how you bend over, because you might split a seam. Richard's a bit thinner than you are."

"Well, he's quite a bit younger than I am too," Francis retorted. He shifted in the seat in a vain attempt to sit comfortably in the too-tight trousers. For the tenth time in as many minutes, he pulled on the sleeve of the white shirt he wore beneath the jacket, to be sure it came down far enough to cover the tattoo on his wrist. He had lived with that tattoo for a long time. Why did the sight of it now bother him so much that he could barely stand to look at it himself, much less allow other people to see it?

The day was hot and humid and he was stifling in the extra layers of clothing, but if this silly outfit would help them get the Inn, he'd follow Pat's advice. Owning a business would surely gain him not only the respect of the local humans, but perhaps even acceptance by the Tenctonese community. Someday, he vowed, he'd make them forget that he had been one of the Kleezantsun#. Someday, there would be a place here for him. Someday --

He shrugged away the wistful hope and contented himself with staring out the window at the trees as they drove the ten miles to Cartersville. Pat seemed uncharacteristically quiet, so he concluded she must be more anxious about this than she wanted to admit. She only got quiet when she was worried about something.

He opened the glove compartment, intending to put a tape in the tape deck. The music might soothe her nerves. She didn't seem to be paying any attention to him, just staring straight ahead at the road and frowning behind her sunglasses.

The first tape he encountered surprised him. Thinking he'd read it wrong, he held it closer to his eyes. BERLITZ SCHOOL OF LANGUAGE -- TENCTONESE SELF-TAUGHT -- TAPE 5.

Pat finally noticed what he was doing. He saw her glance sideways at him, then back to the road.

*How long have you been studying this?* he asked in Tenctonese, wondering how much she had covered in the four previous tapes.

*Last -- Spring. When Jane and I -- becoming were --* She switched to English. "How do you say 'friends'?"

He told her. She repeated it, fairly accurately.

*Not bad for a beginner.* 

*Say it again?*

He repeated himself. This time she got it.

*Thank you. I understand -- more than -- talk.*

He switched back to English, since she was obviously still struggling with the Tenctonese. "Why didn't you ask us to help you?"

"I didn't want you to know I was studying it until I could do more than fumble around."

"Well, I guess we'll all have to be more careful about what we say in front of you from now on," he said, keeping a straight face. "No more snide comments and human jokes."

For a moment, Pat looked surprised. Then she laughed. Good. He must have said it right if she had realized he was only kidding.

"You're pulling my leg," she scoffed.

He'd heard that one before, but couldn't help glancing at the slim brown calves showing below the hem of her dress. Where on earth had they gotten that expression?

"Yes," was all he answered. The road curved slightly and he noticed they were almost into town. He put the tape away and fidgeted nervously in his seat.

After having lived in the area for almost three months, Francis was getting used to the swinging drawbridge they had to cross in order to get into Cartersville. He wasn't even too alarmed when it turned out to be open and they had to wait in a long line of cars on the bridge, with the salty water at the mouth of the Yaupon River flowing implacably not twenty feet beneath them.

What he wasn't used to was the high-rise bridge out to Turkle Island, where the real estate agency was located. The view from the top of the span was lovely -- if you liked to look at miles of saltwater and marshlands.

Well, he was living in a beach resort area. He'd just have to learn to take such things in stride. He let go of the death grip he had on the edges of his seat and tried hard to appreciate the beauty of the sound on a clear day in late summer, with boats zipping along and sunshine sparkling on the water.

As the bridge slanted down and they were once again over dry land, Francis found his breath coming a lot easier. He'd never actually been out on the island before, but it was where the better motels and condominiums were located because it fronted on the ocean.

They didn't drive much further before Pat pulled into a small parking lot in front of a row of rather garish offices and stores.

SEAGULL REALTY AND DEVELOPMENT COMPANY the window in front of one of the offices proclaimed in ornate letters.

"Hmph!" Pat snorted as they got out of the car. "Know what a seagull is, Francis? It's the avian equivalent of a rat: a nasty, vicious scavenger that also preys on weaker birds. Its success is due mostly to its ability to live on the trash produced by human beings. Larry Hatfrey chose his company name well."

He thought about that. Actually, he was rather fond of seagulls. They were very tasty. However, Pat was obviously seeing them from a different angle. "I take it you don't like Mr. Hatfrey."

"You take it correctly. But he's the exclusive agent for the Inn, so we haven't got much choice." She took a deep breath and threw her head back. "Let's go."

The first thing Francis noticed about the office was the overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke. Although it was a smell he found definitely vile, he wasn't as sensitive to tobacco as some newcomers were.

A woman looked up at them from behind her desk. She was young and probably quite beautiful, if you took human male preferences into consideration. To Francis' eyes, she wore too much makeup, her hair looked exceptionally frowsy and unkempt, and her blouse was so tight that it must surely be as uncomfortable as the suit he was wearing.

"May I help you?" the woman asked uncertainly.

Pat gave her a bright smile. "We have an appointment with Mr. Hatfrey, but we're a few minutes early."

The receptionist's eyes flickered down to the calendar on her desk. "Oh, yes. Ms. Fisher and Mr. Bernardone." She rose. "I'll just go tell him you're here."

As she headed back towards one of the private offices, Francis noted that her skirt was also too tight for her to walk easily and the heels of her shoes were so high and narrow that he was surprised she didn't turn her ankles.

The young woman minced back across the room in her ridiculous shoes. "Mr. Hatfrey will see you now."

"Thank you," Pat replied cordially. "Come on, Francis."

The odor of burnt tobacco was even worse inside the small office, despite the open windows. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the mahogany desk, surrounded by quite a few burned out butts.

Larry Hatfrey rose to his feet when he saw Pat, a wide smile on his face. "Come in, come in, Ms. Fisher."

His smile flickered when Francis followed her into the office. His eyes widened and then narrowed slightly, but he didn't miss a beat. "And you must be Mr. Bernardone." He indicated the chairs facing his desk. "Sit down, please."

Hatfrey looked every inch the successful businessman. Even Francis could recognize the smart tailoring of his suit and the expensive but not gaudy diamond in his ring. He was obviously well past his youth, but still fit and trim. His voice was resonant, without the drawl of the local human population. And that voice was vaguely familiar, although Francis couldn't recall precisely where he'd heard it before. For some reason, he took an instant dislike to the man.

Francis let Pat do most of the talking. Although he was putting up 70% of the money, he hadn't had much experience with human business technicalities, while Pat had studied such things. She had already arranged for the title search, surveying of the property, and inspection of the buildings. He tried his best to look interested as they dickered over the selling price, then discussed mortgages and financing. It was only later on that he realized Pat had done a very smooth job of talking the price down by almost forty thousand dollars, pointing out how long the buildings had been left vacant and how extensive the renovations would have to be. She revealed nothing of their plans to run the old Inn as anything other than an ordinary motel.

By the time an agreement had been reached, Larry had gone through an entire pack of cigarettes and Francis was beginning to feel twitchy from inhaling so much leftover smoke. Pat's smile appeared a bit frayed around the edges, but she was still putting on her charming businesswoman act. Larry excused himself for a moment so he could, in his own words, "start the ball rolling". Francis hoped that meant they were almost done. 

Pat reached over and squeezed his hand, the smile on her face now quite genuine. "We've got it," she whispered.

In the outer office, Francis could here Larry order his secretary in a low voice, "We need a purchase and sales agreement on a big deal, so I want our lawyer in on this. Get the Jew-boy over here as soon as I get rid of these -- people."

It was quite apparent that Larry didn't know precisely how well newcomers could hear. While he had spoken very softly, it hadn't been quite softly enough. Francis would have said something to Pat, but he didn't have time. Larry came bustling back into the room, all smiles and cordiality.

"My secretary will get right to work on the agreement. If you could come back --" Larry glanced at his watch -- "oh, say, four o'clock this afternoon, I think we can have everything ready to sign."

Pat stood up. "Four o'clock will be fine, Mr. Hatfrey. A pleasure doing business with you."

"And with you also, Ms. Fisher."

Francis was relieved to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. He hadn't really been worried about the sale. Any real estate agent in his right mind would be anxious to unload the Atlantic Inn just as soon as he found a taker. What he was worried about was their ability to make it a going concern once they had it.

As they got into the car, Pat took a quick look in the rearview mirror, fluffing out her short curly hair with the tips of her fingers.

"You were right about that man," Francis remarked. "He certainly is a seagull."

She laughed. "It would sound better if you said he was a rat."

"Whatever." He went on to tell her of the remark he had overheard. At least it distracted his attention from their return trip over the high bridge.

"Doesn't surprise me," Pat replied. "The 'Jew-boy' is Murray Pearlman. He's only been here a little over a year, but he's got the reputation of being the sharpest lawyer in town. To refer to him that way is an insult, in case you didn't know."

"I am aware of that. Are there many Jews in Cartersville?"

"No. They're almost as rare around here as newcomers. Maybe even more so, considering how many of you have been moving in lately."

Pat pulled up at the traffic light on the mainland side of the bridge. "Well, next stop is the bank. We should have no trouble getting a mortgage, considering the sizable down payment we're prepared to make." Her smile faded and she looked over at Francis, her black eyes troubled. "You sure you want to do this? I mean, it's mostly your money we're tying up, until my house sells. We haven't signed anything yet. We could still get out of it. We're going to be cutting it pretty close, financially. If anything goes wrong and the business doesn't do well, we could lose  
everything."

Francis had already weighed the risks through many a sleepless night. He wasn't about to back out now. "I'm sure I want to buy the Inn. Let's go."

When they parked at the bank, he resigned himself to another dull bargaining session.

By evening, everything had been settled. All the papers had been signed and the closing was scheduled for a day in early September. As they drove out of town and back to the Wagners' house, Pat just kept repeating, "We did it, we did it, I don't believe it." She seemed ecstatic, but Francis was just plain tired out and his shoulder ached where he'd been shot several years ago.

"Can I take off this outfit now?" he asked wearily.

"Oh yeah. Sure."

"Good!" He pulled off the tie and squirmed out of the jacket. Then he kicked off the shoes, which had been getting more uncomfortable as the day wore on. "I guess I'm going to have to buy myself a suit that fits properly, if I want to look like a businessman. But I still think they're silly. For instance, this narrow piece of cloth tied around my neck serves absolutely no purpose other than to choke me."

Pat laughed. "I can't wait to get out of this dress too. And these stockings. Ugh!"

Francis was silent for a while, watching the trees go by. "I think that lawyer we met this afternoon is in the Klan."

"Murray Pearlman? Come on now! Are you sure you aren't being paranoid?" she scoffed.

"No, really. He's about the same height and his accent is just like one of the humans involved in the attack on the Wagners. The one who tied my hands." The one who had seen the tattoo on his wrist and reacted as if he recognized what it was. And, now that he thought about it, the one who had at first urged the Klan leader to let Francis go.

Pat's expression turned serious. "I see what you mean. Murray does talk funny. Kind of German, but not quite. He'd be easy to pick out of a crowd, just on the basis of his voice. But why would he be mixed up in this sort of thing? The Klan used to be after Jews, same as blacks."

"I know. But now they're mostly down on newcomers. After all, there was a black with them --"

"I still find that hard to believe," she interrupted.

"Damnit, Pat, I saw his hands! I told you that."

"All right, all right. Take it easy. I'll take your word for it."

"I'm going to identify them all. And I'm going to get them," he said softly, looking straight ahead.

"Francis – " Her voice sounded suddenly afraid.

"Oh, don't worry," he reassured her. "I won't do anything illegal. I haven't even figured out how I'm going to do it as yet. But --" Switching to Tenctonese, he finished coldly, *One way or another, I'm going to get them. All of them.*

Pat frowned. "That's assuming they don't get you first, boss. Be careful." 

She reached over and put a hand on his arm. "We're almost home. Don't say anything to Jane about recognizing Murray, okay? No reason to upset her over it, with her being pregnant and all."

He nodded. Pat turned off the main road and onto the dirt driveway to the house.

Jane was waiting for them. She ran down from the porch and over to the car, shouting, "Well? What happened? What happened?"

Pat jumped out of the car, grabbed the newcomer woman around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and spun her in a circle, whooping loudly. Francis watched, deciding this must be some sort of human ritual for expressing joy.

As he hurried upstairs to his room to change clothes, he could hear Pat giving an excited description of their day. He wished he could share in her enthusiasm, but he was having trouble fighting off a vague sense of dread. He was committed to buying the Inn now. Oh yes, he wanted it, and all the things it could bring him, but all his carefully-hoarded money was tied up in the purchase. He couldn't just pack his van and leave if things began going wrong.

Arranging Richard's suit neatly on a hanger, he tried to tell himself that nothing would go wrong. Despite his earlier concern about the Ku Klux Klan, they weren't the ones he feared most. No matter how dangerous they might be, they were only humans. But surely, after two years of running, it was safe for him to settle down. Piedra would have called off her assassins long ago. She must have more important things to occupy her attention by now.

He shivered. If Piedra Frelani's agents ever caught up with him, he would be, as the humans so succinctly put it, dead meat.

He put on his jeans and shirt, automatically pulling the long sleeves down to make sure they covered his wrists. Although Pat kept trying to convince him he'd be more comfortable in a T-shirt in the Southern heat and humidity, he went right on ignoring her advice. She just didn't understand. Not only did he not want others to see the Overseer's tattoo, he didn't even want to have to see it himself. He supposed he could have worn a wristwatch or heavy bracelet if he wanted to do a better job of hiding it, but long sleeves seemed somehow less obvious.

His eyes slid away from his hands, seeking something safer to look at. Until recently, the tattoo had been primarily a nuisance and a danger, concealed mostly for safety's sake. Now it seemed to stand between him and the other newcomers, a jagged barrier between himself and the people he desperately wanted to be his friends.

By the time he got downstairs, the two women were sitting at the kitchen table. Pat had tossed shoes and stockings aside and unbuttoned her dress so far that she could no longer have passed for a respectable businesswoman. Jane was munching on woodchips, while Pat attacked a container of onion dip with a potato chip.

They were no longer discussing the purchase of the Inn, much to Francis' surprise.

"So Richard called from the clinic and asked if I would drop off some medicine for one of his hospice patients," Jane said "Seems everyone else was busy, and Mrs. Pearlman had run out."

"Esther Pearlman, the lawyer's mother?" Pat glanced at Francis with a look that clearly said, "Keep quiet."

"Yes, I think so. She showed me pictures of her son and said he was a lawyer. Mrs. Pearlman's such a sweet old lady. I hate to think she's dying of cancer. Richard says she's got maybe three months left. I liked her. We had a nice talk. And guess what?"

"What?" Pat responded dutifully, taking some more dip.

"I promised to stop by and visit her next week. She's got a bad leg, so she can't drive anymore and she's bored staying home. I said I'd take her for a ride in the country." Jane frowned. "I guess that's all right, isn't it? I know she's sick, but she's still in pretty good shape, so I don't think it would hurt her.'

"Now, don't you worry none about that, honey," Pat assured her. "You can always ask Richard, just to be sure, but I never heard tell of any old folks who were hurt by a little extra attention and fun, even if they weren't all that healthy."

"Maybe you'd like to bring her over for dinner someday?" Francis suggested.

Jane frowned. "I don't know. We got to talking about food. She only eats things that are 'kosher', whatever that is."

Both newcomers looked at the black woman for an explanation, but Pat only shrugged her shoulders and dumped more potato chips out of the bag. "Some kind of Jewish stuff. I don't know the details."

"We could find out," Francis said.

"Yes," Jane agreed with ready enthusiasm. "Then I could make some kosher for her, if she'd come for dinner." She frowned. "I hope it tastes good."

Pat chuckled, but didn't attempt to explain why.

 

The month before the closing passed quickly. It seemed there were more details involved in becoming an innkeeper than Francis had ever dreamed possible. While they couldn't begin renovations until after the closing, when they would take legal title to the Inn, the plans alone kept them busy in the meantime. Pat's idea to turn it into a vacation resort for amateur naturalists, rather than simply another motel, sounded fine in theory, but had to be translated into reality. She spent hours tramping around the property, laying out trails through the saltmarsh, along the river, and through the woods. She went through the main building and the five outlying cottages, deciding what they could afford to redecorate right away and what would have to wait until after the first season. Francis accompanied her on most of her planning trips, but he drew the line at her saltmarsh explorations. That she could do by herself!

They agreed that Pat would take the manager's apartment. Since it was located just off the main entrance, she would be able to watch the Front Desk area if she left her door open. Francis decided he would move into the cottage farthest from the river. It only had one bedroom, but that was all he needed. The others were larger and would rent for a higher price. Besides, the small one was better insulated and had a woodstove. That would save money in the winter, when the motel was closed down and just he and Pat lived on the premises.

Even before they had signed the final papers, both of them had begun to think of the Inn as home. If they were going to be ready to open by spring, they'd have to get a lot accomplished this winter. Francis tried not to allow himself to think of what would happen if they couldn't make a success of this. On days when he was doubtful, he let Pat's energy and enthusiasm carry him along.

The closing came and went without problems. After that, work began in earnest. Carpenters, plumbers, and other assorted tradespeople bustled around the property, but it always seemed that you couldn't get the one you wanted to be there at the time he or she was needed. Materials ordered failed to arrive when they were supposed to. Delay followed delay and they were soon running behind schedule.

Francis fretted over the delays and complications, while Pat attempted to take everything in stride. However, even her temper began to fray around the edges as the time slipped away and nothing substantial seemed to be getting done.

Since Pat's house hadn't sold yet and the plumbing in the manager's apartment was in the process of being replaced, she was still living at home. Francis had moved into his cottage just as soon as the sale had closed. It wasn't that he was in a rush to get out of the Wagners' house, he told himself, but it would be nice not to have to deal with Richard's constant underlying hostility towards him. He did miss the long evenings spent talking with Jane on their front porch, though. Somehow, he seemed to be too busy to do much visiting these days.

At first, Francis had a tendency to want to tell all the tradespeople precisely how to do their jobs, but he soon found that didn't go over well. He eventually discovered things went better if he simply stayed out of everyone's way, so he concentrated on clearing the grounds around the Inn of the debris accumulated during years of neglect. He also went around cleaning up after everyone, but he was careful to do that when they weren't around. The messy chaos annoyed him no end, but he consoled himself with the fact that it was only temporary.

Since the weather was turning cooler, he decided to start a woodpile for the coming winter. Not only did he have a woodstove in his cottage, but there was a brick fireplace in the recreation room at the Inn. There were so many dead trees on the property that he figured he'd be set for years. Once he got the hang of using a chainsaw and a splitting maul, he rather enjoyed it. Somehow, the sight of all those pieces of wood, neatly cut and stacked between two trees, made him feel warm already.

He built his first fire on a foggy Sunday morning in early October. It wasn't cold enough to really need a fire, but Pat was supposed to be moving into her apartment that day and he figured that a cheerful blaze in the rec room would provide a nice welcome. He brought in several armloads of wood, made a neat pile of crumpled paper and kindling, and was just about to get it started when he heard her car drive up to the front entrance. Touching a match to the paper, he congratulated himself on a job well done -- until the smoke perversely decided to flow into the room, rather than up the chimney.

He was trying to figure out what to do about this problem when Pat came running into the room.

"Francis, what the devil's going on in here?!"

"The smoke won't --"

He got no further. She was already at the fireplace, turning a small bronze handle he had thought to be a decoration. Coughing and laughing at the same time, she began fanning the now-cooperative smoke toward the chimney with a piece of newspaper. "Open the sliders," she gasped. "Let's get some air in here."

He hurried over to the wide glass doors that faced out onto the Yaupon River and slid them open as far as they would go.

Pat was still laughing. "Next time, don't start the fire until you open the damper, okay?"

He nodded, not sure what a damper was but knowing it must have something to do with the handle she'd turned. He'd investigate that later, when the fire burned down.

Behind a low counter at one side of the-room, there was a sink and a bar refrigerator. They had set up a coffee urn on the counter, and it was perking happily to itself. Trying to hide his embarrassment, Francis went over and began fiddling with the cups and spoons.

"Ready for some coffee? It's almost done."

"Sure. In fact, I picked up a box of donuts on my way here, plus some of those seagull wings you like so much. I'll run out to the car and bring them in. Guess I better bring the kittens in too, while I'm at it. They hate to be in their carrier."

She disappeared through the doorway to the office area, then he heard the outer door slam.

He looked around the rec room, wondering nervously if they would ever really see it filled with guests. Pat thought it would make a good meeting place for their field trips and some of the lectures she had planned. But what if no one came? What if they didn't do enough business to pay the mortgage?

Resolutely, he pushed his worries aside, reminding himself to deal with today, not tomorrow. Just now the room was still rather smoky, so he made up two cups of coffee and beat a hasty retreat to the office.

Pat came out of her apartment, carrying a couple of plates. "I've got an idea for the Front Desk," he said. "Want to hear it?"

She helped herself to a chocolate-covered donut. "Sure."

The Front Desk itself was made from a transverse section cut from a cedar log. Along each edge, the bark still clung to the wood, but the top was varnished to a glossy finish. It was almost six feet long and three feet wide and sat on a heavy base containing drawers and file cabinets. Unlike the chest-high counters in most motels, it was truly a desk, meant for someone to sit behind, rather than stand. It was located directly across the room from the door to Pat's apartment.

"If we move the desk over to the corner next to your door, you can keep an eye on things much more easily and come out to greet guests with less hassle," he pointed out.

She inspected the office area thoughtfully, then set down her donut. "Yeah, I guess I could. Here, help me move it over and we'll see how it works."

"I'll do that. It's too heavy for you."

"Now, Francis, don't go getting macho on me," she warned.

"I'm not. It's just that I'm a lot stronger than you are, remember?"

He lifted one end of the desk, twisting it forward on an edge, then moving the other end to match. He could feel the strain in his bad shoulder, so he surreptitiously shifted most of the weight onto his left hand, not wanting to mention it to Pat after what he'd just said.

"A little further back on the left," Pat instructed. "Yeah, that looks even. Let me try it out."

She walked around one end. "The chair can go here." She opened the door. "And my door opens in, so that won't be a problem."

Two small furry animals came streaking out between Pat's legs. "Oh, damn! I forgot about them. Oh well, I guess they've got to learn their way around sometime."

The small gray-striped animal took one look at Francis, spat, and headed into the rec room, but the solid black one came up to him and rubbed her sleek body against his ankles. Francis wasn't too sure how to interpret that. Was it a sign of feline friendship, or an attempt to trip him? He'd seen cats before, but had never had occasion to interact with them on a personal basis. Pat had acquired these two only last week, when someone had tossed them out of a car onto her lawn.

"This small creature is a tasty-looking little morsel," he said, carefully keeping a straight face.

"Francis, please! Tinker and Slinky are my pets!"

Well, so much for his attempt at humor. "Just kidding. Can't you tell that by now?"

She looked at him, still suspicious. "You sure you folks don't eat cats?"

"Not if it would disturb you. No reason they wouldn't be edible, of course. Except for your irrational human prejudices."

Finally realizing he wasn't entirely serious, Pat grinned. "If I catch you nibbling on either of my cats, boss, I'll serve you up for breakfast. Got that? If you're hungry, go catch a possum. There are plenty of them out in the woods."

Francis leaned against the desk and picked up his plate of raw seagull wings, as Pat turned her attention to her donuts.

"I wish you wouldn't call me 'boss'," he said. "We're supposed to be partners."

"Yeah, but you put up the biggest chunk of the money. That makes you the senior partner. And the boss."

He grimaced. "Well, I don't like it."

They'd had this conversation before, but Francis usually lost. He was beginning to think Pat used the offending word as a term of affection, rather than as evidence of her submission to him.

The black kitten continued to wind itself around his legs, making a raucous noise. 

"What's the matter with this creature?"

"Oh, just ignore her. She's begging for some of your food."

Intrigued, he pulled a strand of meat off the bone and held it down toward the cat, who took it daintily from his fingers. She gobbled it up and then resumed making noise, so he gave her another piece, then another, marveling at the appetite of one so small. When the meat was gone, he tossed the bone into a trash can, wiped his hands, and squatted down to inspect the cat creature more closely. Slinky promptly put her forepaws onto his knees and began trying to push her head into his nose.

Startled, Francis drew back. "What does she want now?"

"Pat her. Like this." She demonstrated. "Don't newcomers keep pets?"

Gingerly, he stroked the glossy fur. As he continued to pat her, Slinky flopped to the ground, stretching luxuriously and making another kind of noise.

"This animal is humming at me," he said indignantly.

Pat laughed. "Not humming, Francis. It's called purring." She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him archly. "You like it?"

"Well, uh, yes. It is a rather nice sound."

Chuckling, Pat finished her breakfast. By that evening, they had everything moved in and she was busily arranging her apartment to her satisfaction.

 

When a shipment actually arrived earlier than expected, they weren't ready for it. Pat stared in consternation as two trucks full of new furniture meant for the north wing of the Inn pulled into the driveway.

"Oh, great. The carpet-layers can't come for a week yet, and this comes today. Where are we supposed to put all this stuff?"

The driver of the first truck got out of the cab. "That's what I was about to ask you, lady. Where do you want it?" He spoke to Pat, but he kept looking over at Francis out of the corner of his eye, as if he'd never seen a newcomer before but didn't want to stare.

Before Pat could answer, Francis suggested, "How about storing it in the hallway in the south wing? We can move it when we're ready." They had spent a good bit of money on this furniture, so he would be glad to see it safely settled in the building, even if not in its proper place.

The truck driver shrugged. "Up to you, pal. I'll put it wherever you tell me to." But he looked at Pat for confirmation.

She nodded.

"Park your truck down at the end of the parking lot and I'll show you the nearest entrance," Francis offered.

It was late morning and he knew Pat had to get ready to leave for the nearby town of Willemton, to meet with the director of the state-run Aquarium located there. She hoped to persuade them to bring some of their very popular field trips to the Inn come summer. The publicity would be of considerable value and it would provide an opportunity for their own guests to participate in the trips. Pat also hoped to make contact with some of the educators on the Aquarium staff, to feel them out on the idea of doing some freelance work for the Inn by leading field trips and nature walks.

The deliverymen were hard at work unloading their crates by the time she was dressed and ready. She came over to Francis' cottage to give him the portable phone, since the only incoming line ran to the office.

"Now, don't forget to feed Slinky and Tinker tonight," she instructed. "Food's in the cabinet to the right of the stove. Half a can for the two of them." When he failed to look up from the newspaper he was reading, she came around behind him and asked, "You listening to me, boss?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Half a can to the right of the stove."

"What's so interesting in the news today?" She leaned over his shoulder, following his gaze to a photo of a newcomer in a police uniform.

"Someone you know?" Pat asked curiously.

Francis abruptly folded up the paper. "No," he said, too quickly.

Pat shrugged and turned away. "I've got to hit the road. Don't forget about the cats."

"I won't, don't worry," he responded absently. As soon as the door closed, he opened the newspaper again. The story said the newcomer police officer had just been promoted to detective, a first for the Los Angeles Police Department.

Francis stared at the grainy black and white picture, his thoughts on the past. He had been in pain from the wound in his shoulder, still groggy from the anesthetic they'd used while working on him, trying hard to be careful what he said while the human detective asked questions. The newcomer officer had stood by the door, just listening. But when the human left, the cop came over.

*I know who you are and I know what you are. And if I can dig up even a scrap of evidence against you, I'll nail your ass to the wall. You understand me?*

He had replied cautiously, *I understand you very well, Officer Francisco.*

Of course, he'd gotten away before that cop had found any evidence linking him to Kheersa's death, much less to anything else. Francis didn't think it too likely that the police would catch up with him, but he wouldn't like to run afoul of that particular officer again.

For the rest of that afternoon, Francis was anxious and on edge, wishing he'd never encountered even that small reminder of his past. He was glad when the furniture trucks finally drove away and he was left alone. Turning on the television, he sat watching nature shows on the Discovery channel. The newspaper lay on his chair, ignored.

Pat wasn't planning to come home until quite late that night, so Francis was surprised when he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel path to his cottage just before sundown. He peeked cautiously through the curtains on the front window, then hurried to open the door as he recognized Jane's beat-up old car.

"Hey, Francis! Long time no see," Jane greeted him cheerfully as she levered her very-pregnant body out from behind the steering wheel. "I brought you a visitor. Hope you don't mind. I've told Esther so much about how my friends bought this place that she wanted to have a look at it for herself."

She bustled around to the passenger's side, opening the door and helping someone out.

Esther Pearlman was a small woman, made even smaller by a painfully-bent back. She leaned heavily on the cane Jane handed her and studied Francis with a pair of lively brown eyes. Her gray hair was sparse and trimmed close to her head.

Jane started to introduce her, but Esther cut her short with a wave of her free hand and a gentle smile. "No need, my dear. I know who this is. You've told me enough about him, after all. I'm Esther Pearlman, Mr. Bernardone, but I'd rather you'd call me Esther, not Ms. Pearlman."

Her voice had the same foreign accent he had noticed in her son, but more pronounced. It wasn't that the words were wrong, but they were spoken with a different intonation and stress pattern. It was obvious that English had not been her native language.

"Yes, of course," he replied politely. "Would you like to see the Inn? It's still being fixed up, but I could show you around."

She smiled again, but shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't walk very well these days. I'll just be content with what I can see from here."

"You must at least come into the main building and take a look at what we've done with the recreation room. It has a nice view of the sunset across the river, and I could put on some coffee."

"Yes, I do think I could manage that," she decided. Resting her free hand on his arm, she added, "With maybe a little help?"

When they reached the office, Esther admired the glossy cedar desk, running a finger along its surface. At the sound of voices, Pat's kittens set up a forlorn chorus from behind the door.

"Jane, why don't you take Esther on into the rec room? I've got to feed the cats," Francis said guiltily. After all Pat's reminders, he had completely forgotten about them.

"Okay. Where is Pat tonight, anyway?"

"In Willemton. She'll be home around midnight."

"Too bad. I was hoping to see her."

By the time Francis had located the cat food and served it to the kittens, Jane had made Esther comfortable in one of the chairs in the rec room and had the coffee going. He went over to help her set out cups.

"What happened to your hand7" she asked. "It's bleeding."

"Oh, one of Pat's cats scratched me." He dabbed at the blood with a paper napkin. "The black one likes me, but the gray striped one seems to think I'm out to get him. Cats are strange creatures."

"So what else is new?" Esther remarked ironically from the easy chair. "I had one once that avoided everyone except my next door neighbor. And that neighbor was deathly afraid of cats."

They talked for a while about feline eccentricities. When that topic had been exhausted, Esther began asking about the Inn. Francis was sorry Pat wasn't there to explain some of their plans more eloquently, but he did his best.

Then something disturbed the normal nighttime noises that had been coming from the woods outside.

"Did you hear a truck?" Jane asked, frowning.

"Yes. And I don't know anyone who drives a truck." Francis walked over to the sliding glass doors that formed the back wall of the room. He pulled the drapes closed, so they wouldn't be visible from outside. "Stay here. I'll go look out the front."

He moved quickly across the dark office area to one of the windows.

Pushing aside the edge of the curtain, he peeked around the corner of the window frame. Next to the empty swimming pool, in the oval enclosed by the driveway, a large wooden cross flared out in the darkness. Francis could make out several white-robed people running down the road.

He cursed under his breath, then realized Jane had crept silently up next to him. She stared at the cross, eyes wide with fear. The last time she had seen such a thing, her husband had been badly beaten and she herself had come close to being horse-whipped.

*What are we going to do?* she whispered.

Francis unclipped the portable phone from his belt and lifted it to his ear. Not entirely to his surprise, it was dead. They must have cut the wires. He reached down behind the Desk and took Pat's gun out of its drawer, checking that it was loaded and ready for use.

*Take Esther into Pat's apartment and get down on the floor. Lock the door behind you,* he ordered tersely.

*You're not going out there after them, are you?*

*I've got to. No telling what they might be up to.*

*I'll go with you.*

He laid a hand on her shoulder. *No. Not only are you pregnant, but we've got a guest to protect. I need you to stay with Esther. You may have to defend her, or get her out of here fast. They've been known to set buildings on fire.*

*You're a binnaum. I shouldn't let you risk your life --* she began. 

*Can you handle a gun? Have you had any experience dealing with dangerous people?"

When she didn't answer, he concluded, *You'd be of more use looking after Esther.*

Jane deferred to the logic of his argument with a brief nod. As she started back to the rec room, Francis headed down the hallway into the south wing of the building. Dodging around the furniture crates filling the hall, he let himself into one of the rooms, then slid carefully out the window onto the dark lawn facing the river.

He moved into the shadows of the trees before circling around to the front. The cross still burned, but there was no one to be seen on the lawn. Had they only done it to scare him, or did they plan something else in addition? He held very still, listening.

The usual forest noises weren't there. Instead, the breeze carried faint whispers from further down the road. He followed them, walking carefully on the soggy dead leaves under the trees.

He caught sight of a pickup truck parked at the side of the road. The white-robed figures standing around the truck were clearly visible. Francis edged closer, hoping to find out what they were up to.

The first voice he could make out distinctly was the one he suspected of belonging to Esther's son, Murray. 

"What are you doing with those grenades? I thought you said we were only going to burn the cross and throw some rocks through the windows. We don't need those things."

The answer came in a woman's voice, as she took a small object out of a box in the back of the truck, tossed it into the air, and caught it again. "The hell with throwing rocks. My grenades make for a much better show."

The small man appealed to another Klansman, who stood next to the truck, arms crossed on his chest. "You told me we weren't going to --"

"I changed my mind. Now shut up and listen."

That one had to be the leader. Francis recognized the voice from last time. What's more, that voice sounded terribly familiar.

The leader pointed at a tall figure lounging against the side of the pickup.

"Willy, you go around back and toss some rocks through the windows in the north wing of the building."

"Yes, suh, Ah'll do that," he drawled. "But are you sure you want to --"

"Shut up and do as you're told."

Francis saw the tall man stiffen slightly, but he walked around the side of the truck and began picking up rocks from the side of the road.

"Now, soon as we hear the glass breaking, we'll chuck a few grenades into the other wing," the leader continued.

"A few grenades?" the one who sounded like Murray objected. "Those things can do a lot of damage."

Indeed they can! Francis thought. And was it only a coincidence that they planned to throw them into the wing where all the new furniture was stored? With the Inn's finances stretched so thin, he and Pat would be hard put to replace that furniture, much less repair the damage from an explosion. Their insurance would probably cover it, but that would take time to settle, and they didn't have time, if they were going to be open for business by early spring. If word got out to prospective guests that the Atlantic Inn wasn't a safe place to stay --

Francis edged closer to the humans.

A breeze rustled through the pine needles, bringing a very faint wisp of stale cigarette smoke to his keen nose. The smell triggered an unexpected memory of the previous attack: at one point, a young human male had threatened Jane with a bucket of saltwater, then remarked jokingly to the leader, "Guess you won't be sellin' any beachfront property to the slags, huh?"

Francis' fingers tightened on the pistol in his hand as something clicked into place in his mind. He knew who the leader was now, and knowing your enemies is half the battle. No wonder he hadn't liked Larry Hatfrey. He should have recognized him sooner. But why would a real estate agent risk his professional standing to get involved in this sort of thing? Did he simply hate newcomers that much, or was there another reason?

Hatfrey turned on the smaller man who had protested using the grenades, voice oozing contempt. "Since you don't seem to have the guts to do this, why don't you just stay here and keep quiet. Think you can handle that?"

The smaller man made an angry gesture, but he had obviously lost the argument. The woman standing on the back of the truck handed down several grenades to the leader.

Francis decided this had gone far enough. Firing his gun into the air, he shouted, "Freeze! Police!" Then he ran noisily through the woods, bounded across the road, and fired another shot.

As he had hoped, they panicked. The tall man jumped into the cab of the truck. He started the engine and roared off down the road, as the leader leapt onto the back with the woman. Left behind, the smaller man fled into the bushes.

Pale moonlight caught the license plate on the truck as it sped away, allowing Francis a quick glimpse of the numbers and letters. He couldn't make them all out, but it ended in "22".

Easily aware of the location of the man who had fled because of all the noise he was making thrashing through the undergrowth, Francis was in no hurry to catch up with him. He walked out to the side of the road where the truck had been, stooped down, and picked up a round object that had fallen to the pavement. If the pin had been pulled, it would have exploded long before this. He stuck the grenade in his hip pocket and headed back into the darkness beneath the trees.

His quarry was neatly entangled in catbrier vines, the tough half-inch thorns having caught firmly in the skirts and short cape of the white robe. Cursing, the human pulled frantically at the vines in a vain effort to break free.

Francis stepped up behind him, prodded him in the back with his gun, and said menacingly, "Hold still or die."

The man froze. Francis grabbed the back of his robe and dragged him roughly out of the catbrier, oblivious to the way the thorns tore through skin as well as fabric. The human cried out in pain, but didn't attempt to struggle. His robe hung in tatters, with splotches of blood beginning to soak through in places.

"To the main building," Francis ordered harshly, giving him a shove that almost knocked him to his knees. "Move!"

Despite his effort to terrify his captive, Francis really wasn't all that angry at this particular Klansman. After all, this one had wanted to throw rocks rather than grenades, and hadn't been one of the more vicious people in the earlier attack on the Wagners either. Francis would have preferred to have caught the woman, or the tall man, whom he suspected of being the black man that had whipped him on that previous occasion, both the height and the voice having been the same. But most especially, he would have preferred to have caught the leader.

Besides, if his captive was the one he believed him to be --

Francis left that thought unfinished as he marched the stumbling figure past the burning cross and towards the entrance to the building.

"Jane," he called as he opened the door, "it's safe to come out now! I've taken one prisoner and the others are gone."

Pushing the man into the office, Francis switched on the lights. Locks clicked in Pat's door and Jane peeked cautiously around the edge. Seeing the bedraggled, white-robed figure spattered with mud and blood, she grinned suddenly. "This is what I've been terrified of for so long? He doesn't look like much now, does he?"

Then she ducked back into the other room and reappeared with Esther.

The man started violently when the old woman came into view. Taking a step toward her, he exclaimed, "Mama! What are you doing here?"

Esther's face went white. Then she pulled away from Jane and struggled around the desk toward Francis' captive. She wrenched the pointed white hood off his head.

"0y, gevalt! My son!!" she exclaimed. Her face contorted with sudden fury and she slapped him hard. "You are with those -- those -- !!" Her English failed her and she lapsed into a torrent of foreign words that neither of the newcomers understood. The meaning, however, was abundantly clear.

"Mama, stop it!" Murray finally shouted at her. "The Ku Klux Klan aren't Nazis. They are good Americans. They are defending our freedom and our purity against these -- aliens."

She shook the white hood in his face. "This, you call defending freedom? This, you call purity?" She tossed it to the floor and spat on it. "This I call filth. I have seen it before, Moishele."

He quailed before her fury, protesting lamely, "My name is Murray, Mama."

"Your name is and always has been Moshe Avram ben Chaim v'Esther," she retorted.

Francis noted with surprise that these particular humans seemed to have two sets of names, just as the Tenctonese did. He stood off to one side, watching the vehement interaction going on between the two humans and studying Murray closely. He was perhaps in his fifties, his graying hair disheveled, his face showing a long scratch down one cheek. Faced with his mother's indignation, the lawyer didn't present the same air of confidence and competence Francis remembered from the Closing on the Inn.

Murray drew himself up in an attempt to recapture his lost dignity. "Mama, enough! You're making a spectacle of us in front of our enemies."

Esther continued to glare at her son. "These people are not my enemies. They are my friends."

"Yeah, sure. Tell that to Miriam, who's dead because of one of these creatures you call friends."

"That was an accident, Moshe, a car accident. The newcomer didn't kill your wife deliberately."

"Don't tell me accident! He was drunk, and driving a stolen car."

"It was still an accident." She closed her eyes and her voice trembled. "The newcomers were created by the Holy One the same as we were. You should know better than this. You know what happened to us --"

"I'm tired of hearing your stories, Mama. We're not in Germany now. The Nazis are gone."

She nudged the white hood on the floor with the toe of her shoe. "Are they, Moshe? Are they really? Or have they just changed the style of their uniform?"

Murray glared at her. "You don't know what you're talking about, Mama. Some of the best people in town are in the Klan." He turned to Francis and sneered, "We don't want slags in Cartersville, and we don't want slag businesses here. You may have bought this place, but you'll never keep it going." He crossed his arms, an arrogant smile on his lips.

Esther sagged back against the desk, exhausted by her brief tirade.

Jane hurried over and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Come inside and sit down," she urged.

Francis gestured with the gun he still held pointed at Murray and they followed the women into the rec room.

"Why, Moshe? Why would you do such a thing?" Esther asked wearily, the fire gone out of her now.

With an uneasy glance at Francis and the gun, Murray replied, "I have to follow orders, if I want to be part of it. They've got to respect me, or they'll think all Jews are cowards."

His voice was full of anger, but Francis thought he heard a plea for understanding underlying the words. "Mama, I'm tired of being an outsider. I want these people to accept me as one of them. Can't you understand that?"

If she can't, I surely can, Francis thought, startled to hear his own feelings on the lips of his enemy.

Esther shook her head and said quietly, "Unless you first accept yourself, you will not be accepted by others."

For a moment, Francis thought she was addressing him. His eyes jerked away from his captive to study the little old lady slouched in the chair, but the gun never wavered from Murray's chest. But I have accepted myself, he wanted to protest. I know who I am. I'm not hiding anything.

But Esther's attention was on her son, not Francis. The two of them seemed to be engaged in a staring contest. Finally, Murray lowered his eyes.

"We wouldn't have done any damage," he said, in an effort to dismiss what had gone on. "We were only trying to scare him. Throw a few rocks maybe."

Dismissing the uncomfortable feelings Esther's remark had stirred in his mind, Francis pulled the grenade out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table. "This is a rock?"'

Esther closed her eyes and winced, then said coldly, "You might have killed someone." She made a little gesture in Jane's direction. "A pregnant woman. Or perhaps your own mother."

Murray's face changed, slipping from anger to concern, then back again. "You weren't supposed to be here, Mama. You have no business --" He faltered at the look she gave him. Despite his attempt at bravado, Francis thought the man wasn't altogether comfortable with what he had done. Good. Where a sense of guilt exists, there is also a chance for remorse. He had discovered that truth for himself, the hard way.

"It is you who has no business here," Esther said. "I know we've had our disagreements over the years, but I never thought it would come to this. A Jew should know better. These people were persecuted just as we were."

"Not all of them, Mama." He turned to Francis, his voice hard and bitter. Too late, Francis realized his right sleeve had been pushed up during all the excitement and his tattoo was clearly visible. The gun in his hand only made it look more vicious.

Murray smiled implacably. "Shall I tell you about your 'friend'? The tattoo on his wrist doesn't mean the same thing as the one on your arm."

Francis bit the inside of his lower lip but kept silent.

"I am aware of that," Esther said. "I know about him. Jane has told me." She lifted her chin and stared at Francis. He wanted to look away, but forced himself not to.

"If Jane has forgiven him, so have I," she pronounced at last, turning back to her son.

Murray snorted. "You would maybe have forgiven Hitler or Himmler or Eichmann if they told you they were sorry?" he replied acidly.

"No. Not if they said it. Only if they lived it." Glancing once more to Francis, she asked, "You know what my son is referring to?"

He knew a good deal about the Nazis. It was one of the first things he had read up on after he'd gotten out of quarantine.

"Yes," he answered shortly.

She nodded. "I thought so. I've read about your people also. The parallels are too obvious to be ignored."

The perplexed expression on Jane's face made it clear that she had very little idea what they were talking about. Perhaps that was just as well.

Seeing that his argument had failed to achieve its objective, Murray changed the subject, much to Francis' relief.

"So all right, you got me. Are we going to stand here talking all night? Why don't you just call the police and get this over with?"

"Well, for one thing, you folks cut the phone wires," Francis pointed out. And for another thing, I don't particularly want to get involved with the police if I don't have to, he thought to himself. Was there some other way out of this? After all, no real damage had been done, other than a few patches of scorched grass under the burning cross. And how could he disgrace Jane's friend by turning her son over to the police? There had to be a better way to resolve this mess.

 

"You let him go?! You just let him go?!" Pat exclaimed when she learned what had happened. "Boss, are you crazy? We had him dead to rights, and you --"

"Now, take it easy. How could I have the man arrested with his sick mother standing right there? Besides, he really hadn't done anything much."

She gestured at the blackened wood still standing upright on the lawn. "Burning a cross isn't much? Francis --"

"No, it isn't much," he interrupted, "compared to what they could have done. Now just calm down and listen a minute, will you? I had my reasons."

Pat slumped down on the front steps of the Inn. She had gotten home well after midnight, noticed what was left of the cross, and banged on Francis' door demanding an explanation. He hadn't been able to convince her to wait until morning, so he had told her the story as briefly as possible, while she walked over to inspect the still-smoldering wood. He had even told her of his suspicion that Larry Hatfrey had been the leader of the attack.

"All right. What are your reasons for letting Murray go?" she said, relenting.

"That man wasn't comfortable with what he had done, despite what he said. I told you about the way he argued with the others when they brought out the grenades. When his mother bit into him --"

"Lit into him, boss."

"Whatever. He was ashamed. He tried to hide it, but I could tell. If I'd turned him over to the police, he'd have gotten off pretty easy, but he'd have been angry and resentful. I figured if I let him go, he'd be likely to think things over, maybe reevaluate his involvement with the Klan."

Pat sighed. "So you decided to turn the other cheek. Or don't you know what that means?"

"I know. I have read the Bible."

Her eyebrows lifted. "You have? That's more than most Christians have done."

He shrugged. "I felt that letting him go was the best thing to do." His lips quirked into a slight smile and he looked at Pat sideways. "Besides, he's still got to deal with his mother, doesn't he?"

Pat gave a short laugh. "You've got a point there, boss. I've only met Esther a few times, but she's quite something, isn't she?"

"She is indeed."

Pat looked thoughtful. "Well, who knows? Maybe you did the right thing, after all."

For a few minutes she was silent, staring up at the half moon in the sky. "Boss," she said at last, "nobody at the Aquarium will work with us." She shook her head. "I just don't understand it. I spoke to everyone on the staff, and they all said they didn't have time. I suppose that may be true, but when I had dinner with the director, he kept changing the subject and looking uncomfortable. When I finally pinned him down, he claimed we were too far away for the field trips. When I pointed out that they often came to the beach on Turkle Island, he said that was only because there were no beaches closer. Then he said the Aquarium wasn't allowed to plan activities on private property, which is a flat-out lie. They use the pool at the Holiday Inn for their snorkeling classes."

She shook her head again, her shoulders slumping. "There's something strange going on here, Francis, but I don't know what it is. I'm offering them some good opportunities to reach the public. Why won't they take us up on it? I just don't get it."

"Where does the Aquarium get its money? Other than from the state, that is?"

She shrugged. "The Aquarium Society does fund-raising. Sometimes a local business will put up money for a specific project. Why?"

"Oh, just a hunch. Didn't I read an article in the paper about Seagull Realty building them the sea otter tank that just opened?"

"Yeah, boss. It's a nice exhibit too, even if Hatfrey's responsible for it. But what does that have to do with --" She stopped abruptly, her gaze fastening on the remains of the burned cross. "Nah, boss. They wouldn't do something like that. Not the Aquarium." 

"Not even if one of their most generous contributors just happened to suggest that it would very much displease him if the Aquarium worked with the Inn?" he asked softly.

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't believe it. Hatfrey's a bastard, but I can't see him mixed up with the Klan. He's too clever a businessman for that. You're barking up the wrong tree, boss."

"Maybe. But I'm after people, not trees."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do," he admitted, smiling.

"Seriously, you should have made Murray tell you the name of their leader before you let him go. Then we'd have been sure."

"I suppose I should have, but I was so certain I knew that I didn't think of asking. I'm still certain."

"Well, I'm not. Like I said, Hatfrey's too smart for this. Besides, what does he stand to gain by it?"

"Maybe he just hates newcomers."

"Uh-uh. That man does nothing if it doesn't show a profit, boss, believe me. And I just don't see what's in it for him."

"Neither do I. Yet."

Pat looked at her watch. "It's almost 2 AM. Let's get some sleep, huh?"

"Excellent idea," he replied. "But what are we going to do about the field trips and all?"

"I'll figure something out," she said, wearily. "If we have to, we can lead them ourselves. You wanted to learn about the local ecology, didn't you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. But I'm not sure I'd be any good as a tour guide."

"We'll see, boss. We'll see." She stood up and stretched. "Good thing they didn't blow away our new furniture."

Francis glanced at the remains of the cross. "Thank heavens for small flavors," he said wryly, deliberately using the wrong word.

"Favors, boss. Favors."

"Whatever."

 

The following morning, Pat came back from showing her house to yet another prospective buyer. She jumped out of the car and raced over to where Francis had just finished clearing away what was left of the burning cross. He was still raking up the scorched dead grass when she grabbed the rake and stopped him, demanding "Guess what?"

"What?" he asked obediently.

"I just signed a purchase and sales agreement on my house! Not only that, but it's going to a newcomer, a single woman by the name of Scarlett O'Hara." Pat chuckled. "Wonder if she'll meet up with someone named Rhett Butler someday?"

Francis tried to figure that out, but drew a total blank. Pat grinned at the perplexed look on his face.

"Well, you may have read the Bible, but I guess you haven't read GONE WITH THE WIND yet, huh?" she asked.

"No. Should I?"

"Wouldn't hurt. I've got a paperback copy somewhere on my bookshelves. I'll see if I can find it for you." She released the rake. He picked up the heap of dead grass and began carrying it around to the compost pile, with Pat following him. "I think you'll like Scarlett. She looks about your age and she's very interesting. She's been travelling around the world. I'm supposed to meet with her tomorrow to straighten out a few details. Want to come along?"

"Pat, are you attempting to manufacture matches? If so, you shouldn't do that for me."

She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not being a matchmaker. I just like her, that's all. And I wanted you to like her also."

"Well, if you're sure you're not --"

"I'm not. In fact," she concluded archly, "I'm more likely to make a play for her myself than try to turn her over to you."

"Pat," he said sternly as he dumped the armload of grass, "are you sure that's what you want?"

"Relax. Just kidding."

But Francis didn't think she was kidding, not entirely. He knew Pat was strongly attracted to Jane, but had sworn never to act on her feelings, since Jane was married. If she liked one newcomer --

He dismissed such speculations, telling himself that now he was the one trying to manufacture matches when it was none of his business.

When they got back to the front of the Inn, Pat suddenly grabbed his arm. From the look on her face, something was bothering her. He stood still, waiting.

"I stopped to see Jane on my way back, to tell her the news."

"And --?"

"She told me about this pod transfer business. She said she'd like me to be there, when the time comes."

"I think you would find it interesting." He frowned slightly. "I just wish they weren't going to do it at home. It really should be at an ejection center, where there are trained attendants around to help if something goes wrong. Especially since this is Jane and Richard's first time."

"The Dixons will be there. They've had several children, and they feel sure they can handle it."

"So are you going?"

"Yes, of course." She was silent for a minute. "How come they haven't asked you?"

"Oh, that's not unusual. The binnaum isn't normally involved in a pod transfer."

"But you're their friend too."

Francis just shrugged. If Verna and Mason Dixon were going to be there, he wouldn't have wanted to attend anyway. He had steered clear of them as much as possible ever since he'd found out they knew him from on the Ship. He still couldn't recall what, if anything, he'd done to them personally. There had been so many people, after all. But whatever it was, it couldn't have been good.

"If you were going to have a baby," he said, "would you invite everyone who was a friend? Or just a few special people?"

"Well, since you put it that way --"

Francis patted the hand that she had forgotten to remove from his arm. "Tell Jane you'll attend. It must mean a lot to her, or she wouldn't have asked you."

Pat nodded, biting her lip. Then she hurried away towards her apartment.

 

A little over a week later, Francis was abruptly awakened in the middle of the night by someone pounding on his door.

Pat stood in the doorway, moonlight bright on the shoulders of her silver-gray jacket. A gust of wind blew her collar up around her cheeks. There was a frantic look in her eyes.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I mean, Jane just called. She says it's time, I'm supposed to come --" Without finishing her sentence, she thrust the portable phone into his hands. "Keep an eye on things until I get back." She turned and began running toward her car.

Francis took off after her, barefoot and clad only in his pajamas. "Pat, wait a minute!"

She had already started the car. Rolling down the window, she asked impatiently, "What?"

"Listen, if anything goes wrong, tell them to call me. I've had a lot of experience with this sort of thing and I could help."

She gave him a strange look. "I thought you guys weren't usually involved with transferring pods."

"We're not. But I learned --" How could he tell her he had been part of the experimental breeding projects on the ship, and knew very well the mechanics of pod transfer and birth? If he said that, he'd have to tell her the rest of it too, and he didn't want to do that. "Well, never mind how I know. Just take it from me that I do. If something goes seriously wrong, call me. If everything's fine, don't even mention I told you this. Okay?"

"Okay."

She put the car in gear and drove off. Francis stifled an urge to call after her to slow down before she hit the hairpin curve in the road. She knew that. Besides, she wouldn't hear him at this distance anyway.

Picking his way more carefully now along the pebble-strewn path, he returned to his cottage and took a look at the clock. The display read 4:18. It was no use trying to go back to sleep, so he got dressed, clipping the portable phone to his belt. He tried to read a book, but found he didn't know what he was reading. He was too busy worrying. If only Jane and Richard were at a proper ejection center, instead of out here in the middle of nowhere. He laid the book aside and stood up, pacing restlessly back and forth across the room.

Suddenly, the cottage seemed too small and confining. Throwing a jacket over his shoulders, he went outside into the blustery wind and the moonlight. If only he knew what was going on. If only Pat would call -- no, if she called, that meant something was wrong. Better the phone shouldn't ring. But he was very fond of Jane, and even of Richard, despite the young man's hostility toward him. He wanted so desperately for this particular child to survive and prosper. It was terribly important to him, more important than any other child had ever been.

Francis tried to tell himself that was ridiculous. No binnaum could afford to be too involved with any child. There were literally thousands of children that he had catalyzed. A good many of them were adults by now. Why should this one matter?

For some reason, his feet had taken him around behind the Inn, where the Yaupon River flowed slowly along not fifty feet from the building. He sat down cross-legged on a bed of pine needles. Resting his fingers on his temples, he propped his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and tried to summon the image he used to clear his mind and calm his emotions. But the star-filled void of space wouldn't come tonight. Instead, he kept seeing the river that lay before him, with the almost-full moon hanging above it. With a sigh, he quit trying to force himself into a meditative mood and just opened his eyes and stared at the river.

Why was this child so important?

Because it was the first since he came to earth? No, that wasn't true. There had been others. He had made a considerable amount of money by letting Piedra sell his services, mostly to other Overseers among her underworld acquaintances, people who didn't want to bother with the ritual and ethics of the Order. Some of them had been pretty weird, but he had been paid well to cater to their special interests. He wasn't particularly proud of that, but at least the females had been willing.

It had been different on the ship.

Resolutely, Francis dismissed that from his mind. Now was not the time to consider what he had done in those days. He was too upset already.

The portable phone at his belt remained silent. Good. No news, in this case, was definitely good news.

The nagging thought returned. Why this child? What was so special about it?

He tried to consider the situation clearly. People would see Richard pregnant, and later see the baby, and it would remind them of him. It might well start them thinking they wanted children of their own. That being the case, they might come to him. This child could be his foot in the door, as the humans put it. It might make him really a part of the Tenctonese community, at last.

No, that wasn't entirely it either, although it was part of the reason. There had to be something more.

Then he saw the answer and was surprised he hadn't realized it sooner. This was the first and only time he had catalyzed a child the way it should be done, with the proper ritual and attitude. He'd done it right, at last.

He smiled. After all those years, he'd finally done it the way he'd been trained to. Dalvi would have been so proud --

Dalvi. The cruel glint of light on the double-bladed knife Francis held in his hand. His erstwhile teacher shackled to the floor in the victim's position.

Francis hunched over, his fists clenched and pressed against his temples. No. He would not think of that. He would think of his success with the Wagners' baby instead.

Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to lower his hands and sit up straight. This time, he had not broken all the rules, all the standards of simple decency. This time, he had done it the way it was supposed to be done.

His tentative smile of satisfaction faded. He had no right to be proud. If the Order knew he was doing this, they wouldn't be pleased, to say the least.

But why should he care? He wasn't part of that. He never would be. He wasn't worthy of it, not after the things he had done.

Confused and hurting, Francis bowed his head and again closed his eyes.

\-- And remembered another time of confusion and pain, and an old woman's voice saying gently, *Bin Treyma, the past is over. What are you now, today? And what do you wish to be tomorrow? That is all that truly matters.*

No, Kheersa, he argued with the memory. Yesterday is not so easily dismissed.

He stood up and walked over to the low bulkhead that ran along the side of the river. He rarely approached this close to the sluggish brown water. Depending on the tide, it might or might not contain a lethal amount of salt, this far from the ocean.

Francis stared at the reflection of the setting moon on the water. It almost seemed he could step on that silver path and walk over to the other side.

Watching the glistening sparkles, he wondered what was happening at the Wagners' house by now. Everything would be fine. He was just worrying too much, as usual. But he really wished he could know.

A voice whispered in his mind, Richard's voice: *We thank Celine for this day.*

Then Jane: *We thank Andarko for the future.*

Then the old woman spoke to him again, cutting in on the ritual. *You'll notice nothing is said of the past, Treyma.*

*May we all be one,* the others replied. Francis even thought he heard Pat join in the response in her halting Tenctonese.

He was really worried now. He was more or less used to arguing with Kheersa. She was, after all, only a memory. But this was different. Memories were all right, but he wasn't supposed to remember something he hadn't seen.

He got even more frightened when he seemed to see Kheersa standing on the moonlit path across the river. He blinked, but she was still there.

For a brief moment, she regarded him with the slight smile he last remembered seeing on her face when she had died. Then she was gone, and the river ran down to the sea alone.

Francis sank down on the damp earth and just stared at the place where she had been. There were tears running down his face, but he wasn't sure just why. The moon disappeared behind the trees on the far side of the river. The sky behind him began to brighten with the coming of dawn.

When the phone rang, he almost jumped out of his skin. Fumbling with the antenna, he pushed the button and said tensely, "Hello?" 

"It's me, boss. Don't worry, they're okay. Dix says it's a boy." Her voice sounded strange.

Francis whispered a prayer of thanks that he hadn't even realized he still knew.

"Francis? I didn't catch that. You there?"

"Yes, yes. I'm here. Thanks for calling. You coming home now?"

"Yeah. I guess so." She still sounded dazed.

"I'll put on some coffee. It's almost morning."

"Okay. See ya."

 

When Pat got out of the car, she just stood there in the early dawn light, as if she had forgotten what to do next. She looked at Francis blankly as he came over and took her arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just kind of blown away, I guess." She shook her head as if to start her brain functioning again. "Jeez, that was weird."

Typical human reaction, Francis thought. At least she didn't sound revolted or disgusted.

She gave a short laugh, then her eyes focused on him. "Sorry. I guess it's not weird to you, is it?"

"Not exactly. Come inside."

He led her into the recreation room, where the coffee urn perked cheerfully. Pat sank down onto the couch, as Francis set out cups and got some half-and-half from the fridge.

"Can you -- do that?" she asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Incubate a baby, like Richard."

"No," he said, smiling slightly. "Not my job."

She thought that over for a moment before answering. "Are you ever sorry you can't?"

Francis was well aware that he had a lot of conflicts over who and what he was. However, this wasn't one of them, so what could he say that would make this clear to his troubled human friend? "You're gay. Are you ever sorry you can't have children with a female lover?"

"You want the truth?"

That made little sense. Why would he have asked, if he wanted her to lie? "Yes, of course."

"All right. Most of the time it doesn't bother me at all. I like kids and every so often I think it might be nice, but actually having children --" She shrugged. "Well, that isn't really a big thing for me."

"Then you know how I feel about it." The coffee was ready, so he made up two cups, adding the extra spoon of sugar he knew Pat liked. He handed her a cup, then sat down on the couch next to her.

"Maybe --" Pat began thoughtfully. She took a sip of the hot liquid, then began again. "Maybe you newcomers are lucky. You should have seen the look on Richard's face." She shook her head. "Very little connects human males to the next generation. Certainly nothing like that. Perhaps if it did, they would be more involved with their children. And maybe they wouldn't treat women the way they do."

Francis didn't feel qualified to even begin to respond to that. He just leaned back and stirred his coffee.

Pat sighed heavily, then frowned. "Then again, maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe the two things aren't connected at all. I mean, you don't incubate babies, and yet you never treat me different just because I'm a woman."

He sat up, troubled. "Oh? Am I supposed to?"

"God, no! Please don't."

"Why not? What's so awful about the way men treat you?"

"Well, they tend to act as if women were some other species or something, rather than human beings essentially like they are. And if you have sex with a man, he usually starts thinking like he owns you. He wants to control what you do, expects you to kowtow to him -- that sort of thing."

Now, that hit him closer to home.

"Strange. That's somewhat like we – I mean, the overseers -- treated the slaves."

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Exactly. And that's what I don't want."

He leaned back again. "Okay. It's just that you had me worried there for a minute that I was doing something wrong."

Pat laughed again. And then she couldn't seem to stop laughing, setting her cup on the table and holding her sides. 

Francis watched with growing concern. It couldn't be that funny. Maybe she was just working out some of the tension she'd undoubtedly felt watching the transfer of the pod.

Then the laughter turned to tears and she was sobbing. 

"Pat, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I love her, Francis," she finally managed to say between sobs. "But she loves Richard." She wiped futilely at her eyes with the back of one hand. "I hate myself for feeling this way. I know I shouldn't. But I can't help it."

Francis handed her a paper napkin. "You're not doing anything wrong. We can't help how we feel, only what we do." That didn't seem to provide much consolation, so he added, "Sooner or later, you forget, and the pain stops."

She raised her head, looking at him strangely. "Does it , Francis? Does it really?"

It seemed she was asking more than just whether or not she'd get over her futile love for Jane.

"Well, it hurts less, at any rate," he responded uncomfortably.

Pat seemed to accept that. She blew her nose and wiped her face. *Thanks.* Before he had a chance to reply, she put one arm across his chest and gave him a hug.

If he'd realized her intentions, he'd have evaded her. He steeled himself to endure the human gesture of affection. At least such things weren't too discomforting to him, since they lacked any real depth of intimacy.

Very soon, Pat drew away from him, running her fingers through her hair and straightening her clothing.

"Oh, brother," she said shakily, reaching for her discarded cup of coffee. "What a night!"

Francis silently agreed with her. They sat together, drinking coffee and watching the beginning of another day.

 

The weather turned suddenly cold and rainy, forcing Pat to concentrate her efforts on indoor renovating projects. Painters were working in some of the rooms in the north wing, with a crew of carpet-layers right behind them. Having learned his lesson earlier, Francis stayed out of the way.

As the Descent Day holidays approached, he decided to throw a party, inviting the entire Tenctonese community to the Inn. He didn't actually expect everyone to show up, of course, but he hoped some of them would. He felt it would be rude not to invite the Dixons, but he was fairly certain they would stay away. At Pat's suggestion, he even invited Esther Pearlman.

Francis was no little bit surprised when about half of his invitations resulted in positive RSVP'S, including the one he'd sent the Dixons. At that point, he began to wonder if the whole thing had been a mistake. He had hoped to show off the Inn and at least make himself better known to the community, but with the number of people coming, he wasn't sure he and Pat would be able to make a success of it.

 

On the evening of the party, Francis finished dressing and hurried over to the main building, getting to the entrance just as the Wagners pulled up in their car, with Esther in the back seat.

Richard was in the last stage of incubation, with the baby due anytime now. Francis hadn't tried to see much of Richard during the last few months, since he knew the other man's feelings about him were ambivalent, to say the least. Now he was surprised when Richard gave him what was almost a smile as he got out of the car.

*May the earth stay firmly under your feet,* Richard said, the usual greeting for this time of year.

*And yours,* Francis replied cautiously. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Kind of enjoying this, as a matter of fact." He glanced at his wife, who was in the process of helping Esther out of the car. "Jane's been spoiling me rotten."

"Enjoy it while you can, young man," Esther said, straightening her beige wool skirt and taking a firm grip on her cane. "Once the baby comes, you two will both have other things to think about."

Jane hopped back into the car and drove it around to one of the small parking lots scattered amongst the trees, leaving them standing together at the entrance. Before it could become awkward, Esther put her free hand on Francis' arm and they began moving slowly towards the door.

"I'm starting my paternity leave next week," Richard said, addressing Esther and patting his distended belly. "I'm not much use at the clinic like this, so I figured it was about time."

Jane had caught up to them by now. She linked her arm with her husband's and grinned wickedly. "How much you want to bet he'll have the baby on his very last day on the job, just to get the maximum amount of time off?"

They laughed. Francis was extremely pleased that Richard had come to the party. He couldn't help but hope that if the others saw a pregnant man, it would start them thinking about having children also. After all, he could take at least a little bit of credit for Richard's condition. That should earn him, as the humans said, brownie points. Whatever they were.

Esther made a shooing motion with her cane, announcing, "You two go on ahead now, and leave us older folks to bring up the rear."

Esther stood still a moment, watching Jane and Richard get swallowed up in the bright light and conversation as they went in the door. She sighed.

"They make a nice couple, don't they? So happy. My first husband and I were like that, a long time ago, before --" She sighed again, the wistful look fading into gentle sadness. Then she gave a little shrug and continued walking.

"Does your son know you're here?" Francis asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Oh, yes." She shook her head. "Poor Murray. He just doesn't understand why I won't do as he says and act like a proper old lady should when she's dying, instead of hanging around with you folks."

"Your son --" he hesitated, wanting to find a way of saying it that would not give offense "-- seems to me to be uneasy in his heart, as if he has lost touch with the road he should be on."

"So what else is new?" Esther said softly as they finally gained the door.

After seeing his charge comfortably settled in a chair, Francis mingled with the arriving guests , taking people on tours of the newly-renovated wing of the building and telling of the plans for developing the Inn as a naturalist's vacation spot. He had gotten Pat to write him up an eloquent description of all that several days ago, then memorized it as a precaution against going completely blank when faced with so many new people to talk to.

The Dixons arrived late, but he saw them come in out of the corner of his eye, as he was adding a fresh log to the cheerful blaze in the fireplace. He turned away as Pat went up to greet them, grateful for her tact and swift appraisal of the situation.

Meanwhile, he beat a hasty retreat to the makeshift bar to get a glass of milk. Hoping to keep out of the way of the Dixons, Francis was rather surprised when a Tenctonese woman he didn't recognize caught sight of him and deliberately excused herself from her companion to come over. If Jane was pretty in a youthful sort of way, this woman had a more mature beauty. She wasn't one of those skinny, half-starved creatures that human standards called lovely.

And she was no shy, retiring beauty either. She strode directly over, holding up the back of her hand for him to touch in greeting. "Hello. You must be Francis, since I know everyone else in this crowd."

He was immediately suspicious. She had to know about him; they all did. Why was she being so friendly?

He touched her hand politely, managing to say, "Uh, yes. I'm Francis." Seeing Pat heading their way, he suddenly felt pretty sure he knew who this was. "Are you by any chance Scarlett O'Hara?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Sure am."

Pat had finally reached them. "Francis, I want you to meet the woman who bought my house --" she began.

Scarlett draped an arm around the black woman's waist. "Relax, honey. I already did all that."

"Oh." Pat looked a bit discomforted at Scarlett's bluff assurance. She disentangled herself from the other woman's grasp, apologizing, "Gotta go. Couple of new guests coming in the door."

"Pat's told me a lot about you," Scarlett said, taking Francis' arm and leading him over to the buffet table, which was spread with both newcomer and human snacks. "She says you've traveled around a lot."

"Yes, I have." He picked up a canapé that looked as if it might be chicken gizzard wrapped in a thin slice of raccoon.

Scarlett took a plate and began filling it with food. "Ever been to Disney World?" she inquired.

"Well, no."

"Silliest thing you ever saw." She shrugged. "How about the Big Apple? Did you get there?" At Francis' blank look, she added, "You know. New York City."

"Oh. Yes, I've been there. Briefly."

They spent the next half hour swapping impressions of places they had visited. Francis found it extremely easy to carry on a conversation with this woman. She had a way of making a person feel at ease. Besides, she did most of the talking.

He was listening to Scarlett describe in dramatic detail what she had done when an airline was so foolish as to have lost her baggage on her way to somewhere or other when he overheard a snatch of conversation that caught his immediate attention.

"They said on the news tonight that the KKK will be holding a march in Willemton next month to protest the proposed amendment to give us the right to vote."

"In Willemton?!"

"Yeah. On the day before Christmas, one of the big human holidays. They're expecting people from all over the state."

"Oh, great! Just what we need!"

Indeed! Francis thought to himself. He considered trying to get away from Scarlett in order to find out more details, but decided there was plenty of time for that later on. He didn't want to risk hurting his talkative new friend's feelings by leaving her in mid-story.

Then Jane was at his side, grabbing his arm and pulling him over next to Esther's chair.

"Attention, everyone!" she announced loudly to the crowd. When the buzz of conversation died, she continued, "Richard and I have decided to take Esther Pearlman as our Descent Day #dork." Smiling broadly, she leaned down to hug the old woman.

Esther, obviously forewarned of what such a thing involved, simply replied, "I'm honored."

Francis hadn't really made up his mind if he wanted to participate in the holidays to that extent. He had never bothered to choose a #dork before, although he had heard of the custom. It would make sense for him to take Pat, but that would probably embarrass her more than anything else.

Slinky rubbed her face against his ankles, purring. As he bent down to feed her a chunk of raccoon, he reflected that the cat would also make a perfectly good #dork. Then he saw Tinker sitting on the back of a chair in the far corner of the room, watching the goings-on with evident disapproval. The gray-striped kitten blinked his yellow eyes disdainfully as his sister gulped down the piece of meat, seeming to imply that he couldn't be troubled to make a fool of himself for a mere morsel of food. 

Francis approached the aloof feline carefully, mindful of the claws that had left their marks across his hands more than once. Arranging the leftover bits of raccoon along the far edge of the plate, he held it in front of Tinker, picking up Slinky as he did so to keep her from horning in on her brother's meal.

Pat came over to him, raising one eyebrow in surprise when the kitten actually accepted Francis' offering.

"I think," he said casually, "that I'll take Tinker as my #dork."

"Tinker? Why not Slinky? At least she likes you."

"Maybe I can win the little bugger over to my side."

"Fat chance, boss."

"It's worth a try."

Pat shrugged and murmured, "Up to you."

Then Scarlett caught his arm and led him over to the bar to refill their glasses. His back to the crowd, he heard Esther saying to Richard, "I'll bet everyone will be glad to have a new baby around. Maybe some of the other young couples will be inspired to follow your example."

Exactly the conclusion Francis had hoped people would come to. He couldn't have put it better himself. He was feeling almost confident enough to speak up and offer his services to any interested parties, but concluded it might be wisest not to push it, when Dix broke into the conversation, speaking loudly enough to make it clear he wanted to be overhead.

"Some example. If an Overseer is the best we can do for a binnaum, I'd rather not see any children at all."

Francis was shocked, but tried not to let it show. For the life of him, he could not remember what he must have done back on the ship to make Dix hate him so. It had been just his luck to run into people who knew him personally in such a small Tenctonese community as this. Verna and her husband had recognized him the minute they had laid eyes on him. What were the odds of that happening? he wondered unhappily. Then he refused to wonder exactly what he had done to earn their enmity. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember. He turned slowly away from the bar and towards his adversary.

Esther laid a hand on Dix's arm, trying to placate him. "Now, you know you don't mean that. A child is a child, after all."

"I most certainly do mean it, Ms. Pearlman. And I'm not the only one who'd rather not have this -- person -- involved with their family. Didn't the Tranes just leave for New York City, to find a real binnaum?"

"The Tranes can afford it, Dix. Most of us can't," Jane pointed out. "Besides, we need someone here in the local community. Why should we have to travel that far in the first place? It doesn't make sense."

"The binnaums have always lived like that, for their own safety and that of the entire community. Would you have them change the traditions simply for our convenience? It was our choice to live in this out-of-the-way place. The Order isn't responsible for what we choose to do."

Francis couldn't keep out of it any longer. "The Order is responsible for serving the community, regardless of what that entails."

Dix gave him a scathing look. "Will you now enlighten us as to the responsibilities of the Order? I wasn't aware you were even a member." 

"Leave him alone, Dix," Jane said.

"Why?" He turned on the crowd of people, most of whom had stopped their conversations to listen to the argument.

"Look at us. We're here at a Descent Day party hosted by someone who has no reason at all to celebrate this holiday, and we're talking about wanting him to be the binnaum of our children? Have we all gone crazy?"

Dead silence in the rec room now. Not even the tinkle of ice cubes in the glasses. Everyone stared at Dix.

The big newcomer walked over to the bar to confront his host. "How about it, Bin Treyma?" he asked sarcastically. "What have you got to be thankful for on Descent Day?"

Taken back by the sudden challenge, Francis automatically reached across with his left hand to pull down his other sleeve. Dix caught his wrist, smiling viciously.

"It won't do any good to conceal the tattoo. We all know it's there. So answer my question, if you can. Why should one of the Kleezantsun# be beholden to the earth?"

Francis shook off the other man's hand with a deft twist of his wrist, meanwhile struggling to keep his anger under control. Dix was spoiling everything. How dare the man make a fool of him at his own party, in his own home? Dix had no right to do this to him.

(Kheersa's voice: *Oh? And what right had you to do to Dix whatever it is he hates you for? Temper, Treyma, temper. Rude it may be, but his question deserves an answer. What do you have to say?*)

"I am beholden to the earth for the chance to start a new life," he said softly, his voice carrying easily in the continued silence. "And for the chance to walk in the ways of Celine and Andarko."

"Pretty words, overseer," Dix retorted. "Too bad I don't believe you mean them."

What do I have to do to make you believe me? Francis wanted to scream, but didn't.

Dix turned away. "C'mon, Verna. We're going home."

"Dix --" his wife began to protest.

"Come on, I said!"

The party began to break up soon after the Dixons' exit, much to Francis' dismay. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter if people didn't like him, but he knew it was a lie. He'd had such hopes for this party.

As the Wagners were getting Esther's coat, the old woman waved Francis over to her side to give her a hand getting to her feet. As he hoisted her carefully out of the chair, his sleeve pulled up to show the edges of the tattoo, but he couldn't pull it down without releasing his grip on Esther's waist with the other arm. He turned his head, so that at least he wouldn't have to see it.

Esther's sharp eyes caught the small gesture and she said softly, "Stop looking away, Francis. It is only that which you yourself cannot accept that can stand between yourself and others. Nothing else has that power."

He steadied her on her feet and gave her her cane without replying, as Jane and Richard helped her on with her coat. She kept ahold of his arm as she limped slowly towards the door, then stopped and said, "Since you've been kind enough to include me in your holidays, I'd like to include you in mine. Chanukkah comes up in the near future and I'd like you all to come to a little party at my house."

"Esther," Richard asked gently, "are you sure you're up to having a party?"

She shrugged and waved her hand to take in the room. "Oh, it won't be anything this elaborate. Just you two, Pat and Francis, the three hospice volunteers who've been so nice to me, and my son and grand-daughter. If I don't feel well enough to do it, I'll let you know. But for now, will you all plan to come?"

They assented willingly.

After everyone had left, Pat and Francis tidied up the rec room, collecting all the eating utensils and bringing them into Pat's kitchen to wash.

"Well, the party wasn't exactly an unqualified success, was it?" she asked, hands buried in sudsy dishwater.

He kept his face neutral, not wanting to show how much he had been hurt. "Could have been worse."

She glanced at him, then nodded. "I suppose it could," she finally allowed. "At least no one tossed any grenades in the window this time."

They both laughed shortly over her reference to what had occurred during the coupling ceremony last summer.

"I get the distinct feeling," Pat continued, "that Mr. Dixon just might hate you more than the Klan does. Am I wrong?"

"I'd really rather not talk about him, if you don't mind."

She handed him the cut-glass punchbowl. He took it carefully and began drying it as she picked up another platter. 

"Francis, may I ask you something? Don't worry, it's not about the Dixons."

"Sure. What?" 

"Did you ever want to be something other than what you are?"

Stupid question, he thought angrily. Don't you know by now how much I'd give not to have that tattoo on my wrist?

But no, that couldn't be what she'd meant. Pat wouldn't ask such a dumb question.

"I'm not sure I know what you're asking," he said.

"Do you ever want to be an ordinary male, instead of a binnaum?" 

Oh, was that all? He nearly sighed with relief.

"Do you ever want to be a man?" he asked in return. 

She considered for a while, handing him another wet pot.

"Well, in some ways, that would make things easier for me. But no, I don't. I'm gay because I love women, not because I want to be something I'm not."

"Then you know how I feel. I don't particularly want to be an ordinary male." He dried the pot and set it aside, then added, "Although in some ways, I suppose it would be easier. Closer to what's considered normal, anyway."

She chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"That your idea of normal is to be able to be pregnant like Richard." 

"There's much more to it than that. I meant that he can get married and have a family, regardless of how the children are born."

"Sorry," she said contritely "I guess we were thinking of things in different terms."

"So what else is new?" he asked, using Esther's distinctive intonation.

Pat started laughing again. This time he joined her.

 

For the rest of the Descent holidays, Francis showered Tinker with food, toys, and attention, but it didn't do any good. The kitten continued to regard him with contempt. Francis was beginning to suspect the ungrateful creature of being an unreconstructed Purist at heart.

 

Unlike the transfer of their pod, Francis heard nothing about the eventual birth of the Wagners' baby until after it was all over. He was just as glad not to have been involved in any way and was perfectly content simply to find out they were all well and doing fine. They had named the boy Sandovyn but Pat promptly dubbed him "Sandy " in English.

When it came time, they asked him to officiate at the muak#ti-buti ceremony. For that, he had to borrow Jane's prayerbook and brush up on the ritual, since he'd never actually done it before. He was no little bit worried about how it would go, especially since Verna and Dix were to be there.

 

"Sorry we're late," Pat apologized. "Something came up at the Inn and we just couldn't --"

"No problem," Jane replied, closing the door behind them.

Francis took off his coat and smoothed the creases out of his formal robe. The deep blue fabric was faintly lustrous in the light coming down the hall from the Wagners' living room. The Dixons would be in that room, along with Richard and the baby. Remembering his last disastrous encounter with Dix, Francis closed his eyes briefly and prayed for calm as he followed Jane and Pat into the light.

Sandy's cradle hung in its frame in the center of the room, but the baby wasn't in it. Verna held the child in her lap, wiggling her fingers and trying to convince him to smile.

As the rest of the adults came in, Sandy's fretful cries punctuated the small talk Jane and Pat tried to keep up. Dix sat next to his wife. He said nothing, but his eyes never left Francis and the veiled hatred never left his face. 

Taking a deep breath, Francis asked casually, *Are we ready to begin?*

*One minute,* Richard replied, touching the baby's temples with his fingers in order to soothe and quiet him.

Francis opened the prayerbook and stared down at the script so he wouldn't have to watch Richard with the baby. It still made him uncomfortable to see anyone using the touch.

Piedra's words echoed through his head. *It is our resistance to love that gives us our strength. If you love, if you care, then you can be hurt. You can be made to feel mercy, and turn aside from what must be done.*

But he had known that touch as a child. The Kleezantsun# hadn't recruited him until he was on the verge of maturity, which was usually considered too late to wipe out his earlier training. Except that he had cooperated, had himself agreed with Piedra and tried hard to wipe that love from his soul. Love was the virtue of slaves, not of masters, and he was to be a master.

Francis jumped when Jane laid a hand on his arm, abruptly calling him out of the past.

*You okay?* she asked softly.

*Yes. Just -- uh -- finding my place.* He flipped the pages of the prayerbook to the muak#ti-buti ceremony. He almost had it memorized, but wanted the words available in case he forgot something.

Propping the book open on a table where he could refer to it if need be, he went to stand next to the cradle, which now held the baby. Looking at the adults facing him, he began somewhat nervously, *We gather here to welcome the child of Neerav and Seliessa Lenchka into our community. Sandovyn shall be a new link in the chain which binds past generations to the generations yet to come. A new life has come into our world; a new child has come into this family. Neerav, Seliessa, it is your part as parents to provide care and guidance for your son. But we as a people are asked to do more than this. We are charged to teach our children four things: Love, Spirituality, Honor, and Tradition.*

He paused for a moment, glancing at the four newcomers before him. Pat stood discreetly off to one side, watching.

*Who are to be the teachers of the Four Pillars? Who are the ones who will take the responsibility of imparting these things to this child, so that the light of Andarko and Celine will shine in the hearts of Sandovyn for all of his days?*

He crossed his hands to touch his hearts, uncrossed and touched them again, then touched his temples and spread his hands, palms up. Then he drew his hands together and looked to the others, waiting to see who had chosen each Pillar.

Richard came forward first. Laying his gift on the embroidered cloth covering Sandy's lower body, he said, *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you about loving others as you love your universe.*

Dix came next, crossing to the cradle and not even glancing at Francis. *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you about the journey and sacrifice of Andarko and Celine.*

Then Verna. *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you of your past as a Tenctonese.*

And finally Jane stepped forward. *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you the importance of being honest.*

As each person returned to their place, they crossed their hands, palms down. Francis had gotten so involved in watching them that he lost track of what came next. Realizing everyone was now waiting for him to go on, he glanced hastily at the prayerbook. But it was still open to the previous page and they had gone beyond that. Embarrassed, he was about to reach down to turn the page when he heard another long-forgotten voice from the past. Dalvi Valens, one of the many who had secretly taught the young binnaums on the ship what their role in Tenctonese society should be: the rituals, the standards, the rules that should be followed, the ethic that should be upheld. Dalvi, only a scant decade older than the boys he taught, risking his life to hand on the tradition.

Again, he saw the flash of light on the double-bladed dagger clutched in his hand.

Francis pushed that aside. The voice, only the voice. That's all he would remember now. The voice teaching the ritual for welcoming a child.

Crossing his hands, palms down, Francis began shakily, *In your life, we shall love and teach you. To learn is a great blessing, but to teach --* His voice broke on the word. He had to clear his throat before he could go on. *To teach is a greater blessing still. Honor to those who have taken on this commitment. May these four be one in fulfilling this trust, and may Celine and Andarko guide them in carrying it out.*

There, he had gotten through it without faltering.

*In the name of the Infinitely Holy, so let it be,* he concluded.

*So let it be,* the others responded in unison, just as Sandy began to wail crossly. While Richard and Jane bustled over to pluck the baby from its cradle, Francis sank down into a chair and reminded himself to stay on guard. He had enemies here. Dix stared at him implacably, but said nothing.

Pat perched on the arm of the chair, remarking softly, "Nice ceremony, boss. I even understood most of it. Sort of like a baptism."

"Uh -- yeah. I guess so." Francis was still caught up in Dix's stare. He fidgeted and automatically checked his right sleeve to be sure it covered the tattoo. Then he realized what he was doing and stopped.

Verna appeared next to him, holding out a glass of sour milk in his direction. 

"Here," she said, ignoring her husband's dark frown. "You look as if you could use this."

"Thanks," Francis managed to reply.

Pat stood. "Think I'll go get me a beer from the fridge. Be back soon."

Francis sipped his milk and wondered why Verna had come over to him. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to her.

*You really don't remember, do you?* she asked, so softly he wasn't sure he heard her.

*No,* he replied, not meeting her eyes. *I'm sorry.*

Her lips quirked into an ironic half-smile. *Sorry? For what? For what you did, or for not remembering you did it?*

*I don't know.* That sounded stupid. *Both, I guess.* That didn't sound much better. What was he supposed to say? He stared at his hands and kept quiet.

She didn't move. *It was the breeding program. You are, in a manner of speaking, the binnaum of our two children.* Her voice was flat and toneless as she went on relentlessly, *Dix was never able to love them, he hated you so much. You were what no binnaum should ever have been. You took a sacred trust and made it into an abomination.*

With a small smile, Verna turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Francis shaking so badly he almost spilled his glass of milk onto his robe.

Fortunately, he was able to convince Pat to leave soon after that, although she wanted to stay and visit.

 

The night of the Chanukkah party was the first time Francis had ever been in Esther's house. He was impressed. It looked like something out of the previous century, being in the oldest section of Cartersville, just a block back from the waterfront. Some of the furnishings were genuine antiques, but even what was obviously new was still old-style, so that it fit into the ambience of the house.

He and Pat had been greeted at the door by a teen-age girl who introduced herself as Esther's grand-daughter, Becky. She showed them into the living room, where Esther sat in a wheelchair, holding Sandy on her lap and talking to Jane and Richard. Murray stood off to one side, next to a glass-fronted china cabinet.

Esther looked up at their approach. Her eyes were sunken and dark, the wrinkles in her face more deeply graven than usual.

"Ah, my last guests are here. Good. We can begin now." Despite her cheerful words, it was easy to see she was failing rapidly.

Giving Sandy into Richard's keeping, she turned to her grand-daughter. "Rebecca, push me over to the menorah, if you please."

Becky struggled to maneuver the wheelchair in the crowded confines of the room. There weren't many people, but they filled the small parlor completely. Besides the Wagners and Esther's family, three humans unknown to Francis sat in various chairs around the room. He knew that the other hospice volunteers who had been caring for Esther had been invited, so he assumed that's who the humans were.

When Esther had been positioned to her satisfaction next to a small table set up before one of the front windows, she picked up a brightly-embroidered velvet cap from the table and arranged it on the back of her head. "It is my custom to wear a yarmulke when I pray," she told them. "If anyone else wishes to, I have extras, but it is not required."

Becky chose a purple satin cap and settled it on her long dark hair. Although Esther glanced questioningly at Murray, he remained standing against the wall. Two of the other humans also decided to follow Esther's lead, but they looked definitely self-conscious about it.

"For those of you who are not Jewish -- and that seems to include almost everybody -- there are a few things I would like to explain," Esther said. "I'm a Reconstructionist. I take from our tradition that which seems to me right and good, and I discard the rest."

She smiled gently. "I think I should warn you that I am not typical of all Jews. Some say the truth has already been divinely revealed . Others say we must ourselves be a part of the never-ending search for truth. Others have chosen to drop their Judaism entirely. And others have made still other choices. But, one way or another, we must all come to terms with our tradition and we must all make our own choices. We differ mostly over how and on what basis those choices are to be made."

She spoke with an effort, pausing often to catch her breath. When she had finished, she nodded at Becky, who went around the room turning off some of the lights and lowering others. Murray edged over to his mother as this was going on. "Mama, you shouldn't be doing this," he said in an undertone. "You're only tiring yourself out."

"Shah, Moishele," she replied sternly. "Some things are more important than an old lady's comfort. Let be."

Frowning, he retreated to his spot by the wall.

As Becky finished her task, Esther gestured at the small candelabra on the table. "At this darkest time of the year, we celebrate Chanukkah. Each night for eight nights, we light one more candle in the menorah. In the midst of darkness, we kindle light. In the midst of despair, we commit ourselves to hope and life."

She glanced at the window behind the menorah before continuing her lecture. "The light must be in a place where it may be seen by others. This is important, as hope must not be kept only to oneself.

"But freedom is also a theme of Chanukkah. This holiday commemorates a long-ago struggle of our people against those who sought to oppress us. It is said that when the rebels finally prevailed over their foes and recaptured the great Temple in Jerusalem, they searched for some of the holy oil, that they might cleanse and rededicate the Temple. They found but one bottle, which would last for only one day, but it would have taken eight days to make more of the special oil needed for the lamp. Nevertheless, they lit the lamp, perhaps trusting that their good intentions would take the place of the oil they lacked."

Esther smiled. Strangely enough, it was the same sort of knowing half smile Francis remembered so clearly on Kheersa's face. Did all Elders learn to look that way? he wondered.

"It is said," she continued, "that the oil lasted for eight days." She gave a little shrug. "Well, perhaps it did. But whether or not such a miracle actually happened, we celebrate tonight a greater miracle: that a people could have the courage to fight against overwhelming odds for their freedom, and that the struggle, at least that one time, was successful.

"There are many customs that have developed around Chanukkah in different times and places. Small gifts are often given to the children of the family on each night. Certain foods are served. New customs have also appeared. It is my practice to set aside each night to be dedicated to a different --" She hesitated, frowning. "How do I explain this to those of you who know nothing of the Kaballistic Tree of Life? Well, never mind. While the candles burn each night, I meditate on certain ideas. Tonight is the final night, when all the candles will be kindled. The idea for this night is that of grounding all the previous insights and meditations in reality, bringing them to earth and finding ways to make them happen in this world. Those who wish to share this practice with me may sit and watch the candles burn. For anyone who does not choose to join me, there's food out in the kitchen." She glanced at her son, who stood in stony silence. "Rebecca even made latkes from my recipe, Moishele. I think you'll like them."

Esther gestured for her grand-daughter to come up to the menorah and light a match. The girl held the flame to one of the candles, which stood above and slightly away from the rest. She blew out the match and took the candle in her hand. Esther chanted something unintelligible in Hebrew, then translated it for them. "Blessed be You, Holy and Unnamed One, Who hallows us with commandments and commands us to kindle the lights of Chanukkah."

She went back to the Hebrew chant, then repeated in English, "Blessed be You, Holy and Unnamed One, for the wonders that happened to our ancestors, in those days, at this season."

She nodded at Becky, and the girl lit the other candles from the one she held in her hand, going from left to right. Esther sang a song in her failing voice, with Becky trying hard to follow her. All Francis could remember was the first couple of words, which sounded something like "Ma-oz Tsur". Murray, a faraway look in his eyes, joined in on a line. Then, realizing what he was doing, he scowled and clamped his lips shut.

When the song was finished, Esther settled herself as comfortably as she could in the wheelchair and closed her eyes with a deep sigh. Murray made a beeline for the kitchen, with several of the other humans following him. Francis sat down cross-legged on the floor and fell into his usual position for meditation, propping his head with his fingers against his temples and resting his elbows on his knees. Pat and Jane sat down next to him, but Richard, who was holding the baby, went over to the couch on the far side of the room.

The light from the candles threw flickering shadows on the walls, and the flames reflected in the window glass behind them, bright against the darkness outside. For just a moment, Francis saw in his memory the crackling flames that he had twice seen engulfing a burning wooden cross. He wondered whether these small specks of hopeful light blazing in Esther's window would have the power to overcome the blazing cross, or whether they would fall before that threatening symbol. Or, worse, add their heat to its hatred.

He dismissed that image, turning instead to Esther's words of explanation. Preserving the best parts of their ancient traditions seemed like an approach the newcomers might be able to use in adapting to life on earth. He had known people who clung blindly to anything that they thought was Tenctonese, as well as others who wanted nothing better than to be like the humans in all ways. He turned the concept every which way in his mind, wondering how it might be applied to the newcomers' situation.

As the candles flickered out one by one, the room grew darker. There was only one left when it occurred to him that Esther's words might apply to him also. Although he had scrupulously followed Celinist tradition in catalyzing the Wagners' child, he had also been flagrantly breaking that same tradition by doing such things outside the Order. And he fully intended to go on doing it, if the community would accept it. But, even leaving his past aside, would they accept him, as long as the Order refused to sanction what he was doing? But wasn't it a good thing to have children, that they otherwise wouldn't have been able to? Did the rules that may have worked on Tencton work as well here on earth? Should they be changed? If so, by whom, and with whose approval? What should they keep, and what should they toss away?

He had just begun formulating the questions when the final candle sputtered and died. Esther gave a deep sigh and turned to her grand-daughter, asking her to switch on the lights in the room. When the girl had finished, she added, "Get me the silver chest from the cabinet, please."

When Rebecca had complied with the request, Esther opened the flat, polished box, inspecting the contents closely. She picked out a small object that tinkled softly as she moved it.

"Richard, would you bring the baby over here?"

Annoyed at being disturbed, Sandovyn prepared to cry.

"Hush now, boychik," Esther scolded him. "I've got something for you, something you'll enjoy, if you're anything like a human baby."

She held the dumbbell-shaped object in front of Sandy's eyes, shaking it to produce a rattling sound. The baby blinked a few times, then reached for the silvery thing. Esther placed it in his hand and his fingers closed around it.

"That is for you, child. For Chanukkah. And to remind you of an old lady who will never watch you grow up," she said gently. "Be well. Be strong. Be a credit to your people."

Murray bustled in from the kitchen doorway and interrupted the tender moment.

"You can't give that away, Mama. Those things belonged to my step-father. They should stay in our family."

She turned on him, eyes blazing. "We have plenty of silverware and trinkets. If I want a baby to have an old rattle, what is that to you? Your daughter is grown and doesn't play with it anymore."

"Well, she might want it for her own child someday. You can't just --"

Esther held up a hand. "Enough already. You're right. I mustn't take it upon myself to give away what belongs to the next generation. Rebecca, what do you say?"

Becky blushed and looked at Sandy waving the rattle in poorly-coordinated glee. "He can have it," she decided. "We've got lots of other stuff."

"Humph!" Murray retorted, glaring at the happy baby.

Rebecca ducked into the kitchen, returning with a tray laden with goodies. Jane helped serve drinks, and the awkward moment was over.

Esther nibbled half-heartedly on a cookie shaped like a thing she called a dreidl, apparently some sort of a toy, as Richard cradled Sandy in his arms and remarked casually, "I like your festival of Chanukah. It reminds me of some of the new customs we Tenctonese have developed to celebrate our freedom."

"Huh!" Murray objected rudely. "It's not the same at all. You slags didn't have to fight for your freedom, the way we did. You got it as a gift."

"Shah, Murray," Esther said. "We also celebrate Passover, and we didn't fight for the freedom we gained then, did we?" She sighed and her eyes looked into the memories of holidays gone by. She turned to Richard. "I wish I could invite you all for a Passover seder. I think you'd like that. But that's too far in the future for me to plan just now." She smiled. "I try to take it one holiday at a time these days."

Francis hadn't been paying close attention to her words. He had been watching Murray's face. When the other man skulked over to lean against the wall, Francis followed him, resting his back against the flowered wallpaper also. He wanted to try something.

Almost casually, he remarked, "Your Ku Klux Klan is no friend of the Jews, regardless of what you may have been led to believe."

"What would you know about it?"

Francis shrugged and took another raw seagull wing from his plate. "I know a little about how such things work."

"That's what you think. I'm accepted in the Klan, just like the others. No one there cares about Jews or blacks or Orientals anymore. We're all humans. They respect me."

Francis tried to stifle the surprise he felt. If he changed a few of the words, didn't he himself hope for the exact same thing: acceptance and respect? It was only that Murray had chosen the wrong place to look for that respect and acceptance, that's all.

And didn't I do that once, a long time ago? he reminded himself grimly. But how could he hope to convince Murray that the Klan wasn't what he thought it was?

Francis recalled Larry's comment about the "Jew-boy", but decided against mentioning it. Why should Murray believe him, after all? If he wanted to win this man over, he'd have to do better than just a racial slur from the presumed Klan leader.

"Are you so sure of that?" he asked, smiling smugly but feeling distinctly uneasy.

Murray's gaze wavered, giving away the fact that he wasn't sure, not really. 

Destroying a people's freedom wasn't possible unless you destroyed their own respect for themselves along with it. Francis knew that all too well, having helped do it to the slaves on the ship.

Since Murray had grown up as a member of a minority, he had to have internalized a good bit of contempt for himself, even as he fought to deny it. For many newcomers, ashamed of their previous status as slaves, self-hatred was a serious problem. It had to be much the same for Jews.

And that gave Francis an idea. Murray would never truly believe the others accepted him, try as he might to convince himself they did.

"If I could prove it," he said. "Prove they're only using you, taking your money --"

That reference to money brought a reaction, a tightening of the eyes. Being relatively well off, Murray must have been asked to contribute a considerable amount by the Klan fundraisers.

"That's not so!" the human objected.

"But if it were so, if I could prove the Klan is run by those who hate your people," Francis persisted, driving his point home, "would you quit?"

Murray smiled a very self-satisfied smile. "Sure. But how do you think you can do that, slag?"

"Very easily, kike tert," Francis replied casually.

Murray's eyes reacted to the epithet, but he said nothing.

"Can you get me an extra Klan robe?" Francis asked, looking around to see that no one was nearby and lowering his voice.

"Maybe. Why?"

"I want to go to the march in Willemton next week, with you."

"Are you crazy?!"

"No, I don't think so. I believe I can show you the sort of proof you will accept at that time."

Murray's eyes flickered around the room. "If anyone finds out it's you under the robe, or that I brought you there --"

"I intend to do my best to see that they don't find out. Will you do it?"

Murray thought it over, his eyes resting on Esther for a long time. He nodded.

"Don't tell anyone about this," Francis cautioned. "Both your friends and mine would try to stop us,"

"You got that right. My mother would have a fit."

 

On the day of the march, Francis told Pat he was going to run some errands. She frowned and started to say something, then changed her mind. He drove off before she could change her mind again.

Meeting Murray in the parking lot at the local Wal-Mart, Francis left his van and got into the other man's sedan. They made the thirty-mile drive to Willemton in silence. Murray parked on a deserted side street and they both pulled the Klan robes over their heads, covering the insulated vests and sweaters they were wearing. It was a cold winter day, with temperatures only in the low 40's. Since the weather gave them a perfect excuse, they had each agreed to wear gloves with distinctive patterns. Combined with their shoes, that would enable them to recognize each other, if they were separated in the crowd.

Francis looked at the white hood lying on the car seat next to him. It seemed a very fragile disguise. If anyone got suspicious, all they would have to do would be yank it off. Then he'd be in real trouble.

But it was too late to back out now. He touched his fingertips to his hearts, crossed them and touched his hearts again, then placed his fingers against his temples, whispering, *In the name of the Infinitely Holy, may Andarko and Celine guide my steps and my words.* He pulled the hood over his head and got out of the car. 

Murray gave him a quick once-over and nodded. "Looks fine. Come on."

Francis strode along next to the human, trying to get used to the feel of the pointed white hood on his head . The eye slits were wide enough so that they didn't block his vision very much, but he didn't like the feel of fabric in front of his face. The rest of the outfit was loose and fairly comfortable. He thought ironically that he was probably more at home in a long robe than most of these human males were likely to be.

As they turned a corner and came out onto a well-lighted street, they found themselves amongst a number of other Klansmen, all headed in the same direction. Francis squared his shoulders, lifted his head a bit higher, and reminded himself to swagger. He had to appear confident, even if he wasn't.

When no one so much as noticed them, the act grew easier. It was no problem at all to walk down the street as if he knew where he was going; as if, in fact, the street belonged to him, and no one else had any business on it except by his sufferance. Blending in as part of the white-robed crowd, it was easy to feel you belonged to something strong and important, that you were something more than just your own isolated self. It was a rather nice feeling.

The march had already started. He and Murray attached themselves to a group of people carrying a banner that read, "CLEAN UP THE SOUTH -- SEND THE SLAGS BACK WHERE THEY CAME FROM" and tried to look as if they belonged there.

There were few people on the sidewalks, and those few kept well out of the way of the white-robed mob. One of the passersby saw Francis looking at him. The man's eyes slid down and away and he scuttled sideways, giving the bogus Klansman a wide berth.

That's right, terts, skulk away like the cowards you are, Francis thought with satisfaction, surveying the uneasy people on the sidelines. For all your fancy words and pretty ideas, you're just as easily intimidated as the rest of the --

When he realized what he had been thinking, Francis stopped in his tracks. Murray grabbed his arm and whispered, "What's the matter?"

Francis shook him off with a brusque, "Nothing. Nothing at all. Come on."

After that, the white robes lost their glamour and his swagger was an act, not a temptation. This was cheap and artificial glory. He knew all too well what real power was, and what it could do. These humans were playing with something they barely understood. The Klan, for all its vicious violence, was nothing but a bunch of amateurs in this game.

He shook his head slightly and almost smiled at the bluff posturing of the poor human fools. Guns, bombs, whips, beatings, a good number of deaths scattered over a period of years. That wasn't much.

For a moment, Francis wished he could show these folks just how big a bunch of amateurs they were. But that would hardly do any good.

Perhaps not. But wouldn't it be nice?

Kheersa's voice interrupted his satisfaction at the thought. *Bin Treyma, you know better than --*

*Relax,* he thought back. *I was just kidding.*

*So long as you remember that,* the voice whispered.

Then Murray nudged him in the ribs and he dismissed the internal dialogue abruptly.

"Over there," the human said, inclining his head slightly towards a group of robed figures standing on a raised platform reviewing the parade. "I think that's our local leader, standing next to the Grand Dragon."

Francis kept his suspicions to himself, wanting confirmation of the man's identity. "How can you tell?"

"He's got the correct insignia on his robe. And that gesture he just made -- sort of waving his hand around? He does that all the time."

"Let's get closer," Francis suggested. They faded away from the group carrying the banner and blended in with a knot of people milling around the low platform. As soon as he got within range of the voices, Francis was able to confirm Murray's identification. The man talking to the district leader was either Larry Hatfrey or someone who sounded one hell of a lot like him.

They were still too far away for Murray to be able to make out what was being said on the platform, but Francis could sort out the leaders' voices from the background noise if he concentrated. From the bits and pieces of conversation he could hear, he knew the Grand Dragon was reprimanding Larry for the large number of non-Anglo-Saxon members in his Klavern. 

In an obvious attempt to placate his superior, Larry declared firmly, "It's only temporary. Once we're rid of these slags, we can go to work on the niggers and kikes again."

"Damn straight," the Grand Dragon agreed, clapping Larry companionably on the shoulder.

Francis smiled. They were playing right into his hands. This was going to be easy. He had been fairly sure of Larry's anti-Semitism from the time he'd heard him call Murray a Jew-boy, but he hadn't been absolutely certain there were others in the Klan who agreed with him. That was the only thing that really bothered him about his plan to come here with Murray. What if he couldn't find some evidence that would convince the other man? Fortunately, that didn't seem likely to be the case.

Nudging Murray's arm, he drew the human closer to the platform, hoping to get him within earshot before they changed the subject. Moving through the tightly-packed crowd took longer than he expected. By the time they got next to the rough wooden scaffolding, Larry and the Grand Dragon had finished their discussion and were simply surveying the crowd.

Cursing his ill luck, Francis cast about for some way to get them back on the topic.

A small band of counter-demonstrators chose that moment to march out of a nearby sidestreet. Surprised, Francis recognized Pat Fisher and Scarlett O'Hara in the midst of a varied group of blacks and whites, plus a few uncertain-looking Tenctonese. They were singing a song about how they would eventually overcome, or at least that's what the gist of the lyrics seemed to be, to Francis' ears.

The Klan ignored them with smug aplomb, while only the nearby police officers seemed to take any note of the new arrivals, closing ranks around them and looking extremely displeased at this turn of events. The counter-demonstrators were vastly out-numbered, their presence seeming only to emphasize how very few people dared stand against the white-robed marchers. Fortunately, there seemed enough police to insure that nothing untoward would happen.

Then Francis caught sight of a small hunched figure shuffling along between Pat and Scarlett, with a brightly-colored yarmulke perched atop her thin gray hair. Murray stood staring at his mother, his eyes white-rimmed behind his mask.

Francis had an idea. Shaking a clenched fist above his head, he shouted into the surprised silence that had greeted the counter-demonstrators' arrival. 

"Lousy slag-loving Jew bastards!" he yelled. "We shoulda sent them all to the ovens when we had the chance!"

Cheers and shouts of assent greeted the insult, much to Francis' satisfaction. Murray stood stock still, as if turned to stone. 

"Let's get 'em!" came a woman's voice from the crowd. 

The shouts turned ugly. Rocks and clods of dirt landed on the pavement amongst the counter-demonstrators. They stopped singing and began to pull back as their police escort, obviously fearing a more dangerous attack, herded them towards the shelter of a side street. Then Esther planted her cane firmly in front of her and refused to move, commanding loudly, "No! We must not retreat! Evil can be stopped only if it is faced squarely!"

A clump of mud hit her shoulder, but she ignored it. Pat and Scarlett crowded close, protecting her with their own bodies, as the others closed ranks and refused to leave, once again taking up their song. Through a gap in the crowd, Francis saw a smile on the old woman's face. But he knew that smile. It looked too much like the one Kheersa had worn when she was dying: pain overlaid with triumph, but pain nevertheless. Esther's free hand was clenched over her chest and she seemed to be having trouble breathing.

The shouts and threats grew louder. Francis barely had time to worry whether he had started something the police wouldn't be able to handle when the Grand Dragon demanded silence from his followers.

"No violence!" he said into a bullhorn, glaring imperiously at the mob. "Back to the march! Ignore these misguided souls who think they can oppose us!"

As soon as Francis was sure the crowd was back under control, he looked up at the leader and said loudly and truculently, "Are we s'posed to just ignore these trouble-making kikes and niggers? Seems to me we oughta teach 'em a lesson while we got the chance."

The Grand Dragon set his bullhorn aside and came down the three steps to the platform to stand next to Francis and Murray. 

"Patience, friend. Once we've dealt with the slags, their day will come," he soothed.

"Can't be soon enough for me," Francis muttered, hoping he was playing his part convincingly. He was all too aware of Murray still standing frozen beside him. If the Jew had failed to recognize the game Francis had been playing and decided to reveal him to the mob, he'd be in big trouble.

Larry jumped down from the platform and came over to them.

"Which Klavern do you belong to?" the man asked, his eyes narrowing as if he were straining to see through the mask Francis wore. "You're not one of my people. Where are you from?"

When Francis had no quick answer to that, Larry's eyes went hard and he grabbed the newcomer's arm. Francis automatically tried to pull away, then realized too much strength would only make his opponent more suspicious. But his sleeve had been pulled up and his tattoo showed all too clearly above the edge of his glove.

Larry recognized it. His grip tightened. "The slags have infiltrated us!" he shouted.

After that, all hell broke loose. Hands reached out for his hood, but Francis jerked his arm free of Larry's grip and ducked away. Surrounded by furious Klansmen, he searched frantically for an escape route. He'd lost track of Murray, but hoped the human had had the sense to fade into the crowd and get away.

Suddenly, someone charged into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. Pain from his bad shoulder lanced through his back and down his arm, but Francis ignored it as best he could. He saw a knife fly through the air where he had just been. Missing its intended target, it struck the Grand Dragon instead, hitting him with enough force to send him staggering backward.

The man who'd pushed Francis hissed in Murray's voice, "Stay down and keep quiet." Then he leaped to his feet and pointed through the crowd, shouting, "Over there! I saw him throw the knife! He killed the Grand Dragon!"

Francis stifled an urge to get up and correct Murray. He had seen the knife clearly hit the Klan leader in the arm. It couldn't possibly have killed him. 

The crowd surged in the direction of Murray's finger, pushing, cursing, and shoving anyone in their way. A phalanx of better disciplined Klansmen closed in around their leaders, protecting them from the crush. The police seemed to be keeping the counter-demonstrators out of harm's way. One of them was shouting into a walkie-talkie, but Francis couldn't make out what he was saying.

Shielding himself as best he could from the trampling feet, Francis crawled clear of the melee, trying to get closer to the counter-demonstrators to see if everyone was all right. He thought he heard snatches of the police officer's shouts now. Something about an ambulance and a heart attack.

Suddenly, Murray was beside him, dragging him up. Unfortunately, the man had grabbed his bad arm. Francis winced and swallowed a scream, but he got up.

"This way. Quick!" Murray hissed. Together, they fled through the chaos. Police whistles sounded and sirens began converging on them. Somewhere not too far away, a shot was fired. White-robed figures began running past them, streaming down the side streets. A few car engines roared into life, as the marchers fled in all directions.

Francis and Murray gained the relative peace of the small alley where they had parked. "Get those robes off," Murray ordered, tight-lipped.

"I think you'd better go back," Francis said. "Your mother --"

Murray had stripped off his hood and was pulling the robe over his head. "What about my mother?"

"I'm not sure. She may have been hurt.

Murray's eyes went hard. "Get that robe off," he ordered again. "We wouldn't get very far like this."

Francis complied without another word. Murray balled up the white fabric and deposited it in a nearby trashcan.

He tossed Francis the keys to his car. "Get out of here while you can. I'm going to try to get through to my mother."

"I'm coming with you."

Murray didn't bother to object. He just took off at a run, plunging out of the alley and through the fleeing crowd of Klansmen. Cradling his right arm against his chest to take the pressure off his throbbing shoulder, Francis ran after Murray. He caught up easily.

Francis sifted through his recollection of those few dangerous moments and concluded, "You saved me. Why?"

"Because you were right, damn you." Murray glared at the newcomer briefly, then looked straight ahead. "But don't expect me to thank you for it. I'd rather not have known."

Francis let that pass. "How did you know about the knife?"

"I saw her throw it.''

"Her?"

"I don't know her name, but she's got all kinds of weapons and knows how to use them. She brought the grenades, when we attacked your place. I've seen her throw knives before. She likes to show off to the men."

Murray was panting now, unused to running.

"Where does she get her weapons?"

"I'm not sure, but I figure she's probably in the military, what with the Marine Corps Air Station being here in Willemton."

That sounded like a reasonable guess to Francis. He had entertained that possibility himself.

They were almost back to the area where the platform stood. The street was much emptier now, with blue police uniforms vastly outnumbering the few remaining white robes. Francis caught sight of Scarlett's tall figure and led Murray in that direction, as the rescue squad ambulance came around a corner and pulled up behind them.

Scarlett saw them then and waved frantically. People stepped aside and Francis got a clear view of Esther lying on the pavement, her head cradled in Pat's arms. Then Murray was kneeling next to his mother, holding her hand and calling her name.

Esther's eyes fluttered open and she drew a painful breath. Her dark eyes flicked over her son, then to Francis, then back. "So, Moishele, where is your hood and robe?" she gasped.

"In a garbage can," he said, his voice shaking. "Where it belongs."

Murray's eyes darted over to Francis, but Esther had caught that look. She gestured for Francis to come closer, then said faintly, "It was you, wasn't it?"

Surprised at her shrewd guess, Francis didn't answer.

"Yeah, Mama. It was him," Murray replied.

Esther nodded slightly. "You have returned my son's heart to me and to our people, Francis Bernardone." She drew a rattling breath before forcing herself to continue. "I know that that can never repay all your debts, but still, it should count for something."

The rescue workers from the ambulance had finally maneuvered their stretcher over next to the dying woman. One of them tried to get his stethoscope to her chest, but she swatted him feebly away, shaking her head.

"Mama," Murray pleaded, "please let the doctors --"

She reached with one hand to stroke her son's face. "Shah, Moishele. Let an old woman die in peace."

"Mama --"

She grimaced with pain and her hand clutched once more at her chest. She struggled to say something, but it was in Hebrew, so Francis heard the words without hearing the meaning.

"Hear, 0 Israel," Murray repeated brokenly, "our God is One."

Esther's hand fell lifelessly to the ground, as tears ran down her son's cheeks.

 

On the following day, they gathered along the seawall behind the Inn as the sun rose. The tide was on the ebb and the river flowed swiftly towards the sea. A cold wind followed it down, sending patches of small ripples and dead leaves across the gray surface as it went.

Rebecca arrived, carrying the small cardboard box that held her grandmother's ashes. Her father walked next to her. On his head he wore Esther's embroidered yarmulke. Murray's eyes took in the little group of people, nearly half of which were newcomers. He nodded his head slightly. Then his lips tightened and he approached Francis. 

"I've got to talk to you," the little man said.

"Murray, it can wait until later --"

"No, now. Before I change my mind."

He took Francis' arm and drew him off to one side while the others gathered around Becky, offering their condolences.

"You're not going to like this," Murray began, "but I'm telling you for your own good." His fingers dug into Francis' arm. "Sell the Inn right away. For the best price you can get. Don't try to open in the Spring."

That was about the last thing Francis had expected to hear Murray say.

"But why? Sure, we've had a few problems, but we're working them out. We've even taken some reservations --"

"Sell it and get out."

"Murray, what is it you know that you're not telling me? Why should we up and quit, just like that?"

Murray's dark eyes darted around suspiciously and he lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. "Larry Hatfrey's the leader of the local Klavern."

"Yes, I know."

"You do? How did you find out?" Then he raised his hand. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. I'm out of that now. As soon as my mother's estate is settled, Becky and I will be leaving town. I'd advise you to leave too, and take as many of your people as you can with you. There's going to be trouble."

Francis shrugged. "There's always trouble for us, but we're still here."

"You don't understand." His voice grew desperate. "Listen, do you know who owns most of the land south of yours along the river?'

Francis shook his head. What did that have to do with anything?

"Seagull Realty. Hatfrey plans to build a huge time-sharing resort there. He just made an offer on the last outstanding tract of land he needs in order to have enough for that resort. He has every confidence that the offer will be accepted. When the resort is open, he's not going to want your place sitting next door to him."

"Well then, why did he sell it to us in the first place?"

"Because he could collect his commission on that sale, then scare you out before you even got started, figuring he could buy it back from you for a fraction of the original price and add it to his resort for future expansion."

Francis still wasn't convinced. "A good bit of the land downriver from us is wetlands. He couldn't build on that even if he wanted to."

Murray gave an exasperated sigh and raised his eyes to heaven. "You folks may be smart, but you're sure naive. Never underestimate the power of human greed. If Larry wants to build on that property, a little thing like the Wetlands Conservation Act won't stop him. I'm not sure how he plans to get around it, but you can count on the fact that he will."

"Well, perhaps," Francis replied noncommittally.

The human reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. "You've got to believe me. Larry's resort plans are strictly hush-hush at this point. He won't make it public until he's sure he's got everything he needs. If he knew I told you this --" Murray turned away, shaking his head at his own folly. "Well, let's just say that if he knew, there'd likely be a flaming cross on my lawn and a grenade tossed into my house, like we tried to do to you. I'm taking a chance just by telling you about it. You've got to listen to me."

The human was obviously sincere, but there was one other thing that didn't make sense.

"Murray, you claim Larry's doing all this just to drive Pat and me into selling the Inn, but he had the Klan terrorizing newcomers long before we bought the Inn. How do you explain that?"

"Money." Murray gave another glance heavenwards at the blank look on Francis' face, then continued, "Cartersville now has the only Tenctonese community in this entire state. Think about it: if this county becomes known as a slag hang-out -- you should pardon the expression -- what do you think is going to happen to the property values around here when the humans start moving out, not to mention the tourist business, if humans stop coming to the beaches? And who do you think owns many of the biggest and best chunks of land?" Murray snorted contemptuously. "You don't think Larry's been doing all this just because he hates you people, do you?"

All of a sudden, Francis started taking Murray's warning seriously. It did make sense, in a twisted sort of way. In fact, it would have made perfect sense to Piedra. He'd wondered all along why a prosperous businessman like Larry Hatfrey would risk getting involved with the Klan's potentially illegal activities. The man didn't seem the type to risk his wealth and standing just for the sake of his convictions, however distorted those convictions might be. But if there was money at stake, big money --

"Thanks for telling me this, Murray. I'll keep it in mind," he replied grimly.

"But you won't leave, will you?"

Francis shook his head again. "This is my home now. I intend to keep it that way.

Murray shrugged. "Well, I tried.

"Yes. And at least now we know what to expect and who to blame. That may give us an advantage."

The human smiled. "From your mouth to God's ear," he said wryly.

The human God had ears? How unusual.

The others were staring at them now, wondering about the delay. "Time to get on with the ceremony," Francis prompted.

Murray nodded, then took a small book from his pocket. As they began walking back toward the little group of people by the seawall, he stopped short and turned to Francis. "It's going to get worse when Larry actually gets going on the resort. Lots worse. If you ever want to stop him, I suggest you read up on the methods of the human organization called Greenpeace."

Francis had no time to ask for further explanations, as the other man strode briskly away. Adjusting his yarmulke on his head, Murray began reciting the funeral service in a Hebrew chant. Although Francis couldn't follow the meaning, something about one of the melodies almost reminded him of a Celinist funeral chant. Eons of grief and anguish seemed to suffuse the eerie warble, driving away the mundane considerations that clamored for Francis' attention and drawing his mind instead to thoughts of mortality and eternity.

Solemnly, Rebecca held out the cardboard box and Murray opened it. Together, they poured the powdery ashes into the flowing stream.

Francis watched the gray swirl of the water. As he had once seemed to see Kheersa standing upon the river, now he saw Esther reflected in its murky depths. The yarmulke Murray was now wearing nevertheless still seemed to be perched on the back of her head and the flames of a Chanukah menorah burned softly behind her. She seemed to be smiling as she whispered softly, "Francis, my friend, remember what I told you. It is only that which you yourself cannot accept that can stand between yourself and others. Nothing else has that power."

Francis pulled up his coat sleeve and forced himself to look squarely at his tattoo without flinching.

Esther, my friend and teacher, he promised the flickering image in the water, I will always remember.


	3. The Bottom Line

THE BOTTOM LINE

 

It was only the ill temper of Pat's cantankerous cat that kept the Atlantic Inn from being put out of business shortly after it opened.

The weather was unseasonably hot and humid on that day in late May, so Francis stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Cutting three acres of grass with a hand mower wouldn't be so bad, except for the bugs and the humidity. Most of the property around the Inn had been allowed to grow wild, but the area directly surrounding the main building had to be kept looking neat for the sake of the guests.

As he glanced around at the large section of lawn yet to be done, he reflected that it would be nice to have one of the new solar-powered riding mowers, but at this stage of the game, their operating budget couldn't be stretched to cover such a luxury. Maybe later in the season, when things picked up.

If things picked up. Very few reservations had come in for the summer as yet and Francis spent a lot of time worrying. Virtually every penny he had was tied up in this property. What if they couldn't pay the bills? What if they couldn't even pay the mortgage? What if --

*Enough,* he muttered in Tenctonese. It would work out. It had to.

Swatting yet another curious mosquito, Francis took hold of the mower handle and returned to his task. The insects wouldn't bite newcomers, but the whining drone of their wings as they swarmed around to investigate was almost as annoying as the itchy bite they produced on humans.

It was almost a month before the schools would close for the summer and the tourists would descend on Cartersville and, hopefully, also on the Inn in large numbers. The wind blew out of the northwest this morning, bringing with it the faint sickly-sweet smell of the pulp mills located many miles inland. Francis reminded himself to look up every so often and appreciate the bright beauty of the wildflowers and trees bordering the lawn. This bit of land was his -- Well, his and Pat's, he amended punctiliously -- but he still hadn't gotten over the wonder of actually owning a piece of the earth.

By the time he had finished, his right shoulder ached badly where he had been shot several years ago. The shoulder seemed to be getting worse lately. Maybe it was just that he had done a lot of physical labor over the past few months, trying to get the Inn ready to open.

He shrugged. Whatever the reason, he was more than happy to put the mower away in the toolshed and turn to the more pleasant task of washing windows. Gathering up bucket, rags, and squeegee, Francis headed for the main building.

The new handyman, a black human named Willy Roquist, glanced up as he walked by the front of the Inn. Francis nodded his head in greeting, but Willy ducked back down below the edge of the empty swimming pool, industriously wielding his paintbrush. He seemed to be doing a good job. With luck, the paint would be dry and the pool would be filled with water before Memory Day.

No, that was the wrong word. What had Pat called it? Oh yes, Memorial Day, the big holiday weekend coming up in just a week and a half. They had exactly seven rooms on reservation, out of a total of forty. That wasn't good.

He circled around behind the Inn, casting his usual jaundiced glance at the Yaupon River flowing sluggishly along not more than fifty feet away. Depending on the tide, it might or might not be dangerously salty. One of the Inn's very few guests sat on a lawnchair over near the river reading a book. Although humans certainly didn't find ultraviolet light beneficial, they insisted on soaking it up regardless. Strange behaviour.

Doing his best to ignore the river at his back, Francis cleaned the sliding glass doors of the rec room, then pushed his way through the azalea bushes that clustered thickly around the building to get at the first floor windows of the north wing. They hadn't opened this wing yet, but it would have to be ready soon. He had finished all but the window on the far end when a terrible screech split the air and claws raked his ankle.

*Celine! I stepped on the cat again!* he exclaimed softly.

Pushing aside the branches, Francis discovered Tinker wrapped around his lower leg, industriously attempting to bite through his heavy denim jeans. Of Pat's two cats, Slinky and Tinker, this was the one who had taken an instant dislike to him, despite his best efforts to befriend the beast. This was also the one he inevitably stepped on, tripped over, or found curled up next to the back wheel of his van whenever he had to go somewhere.

"All right, Tinker," Francis murmured soothingly, squatting down to pat the cat and trying to pry the sharp claws out of his pants. "Good Tinker. Nice Tinker. Let go of me now. I didn't mean to step on you. Come on --"

Then he caught sight of a cardboard shoebox lying not far from his foot against the foundation of the building. That was strange. It hadn't been there earlier, when he'd come by with the lawnmower. With half his attention still on soothing Tinker, he leaned over to examine the box more closely.

When he caught the faint odor of akondiit coming from the box, Francis decided he had no further time to waste on the cat. Grabbing Tinker by the scruff of the neck, he jerked him roughly away from his leg and tossed the animal out onto the lawn.

The last time he'd smelled akondiit was during his brief assignment on a mining colony. As a binnaum, he'd never been expected to actually work with such a powerful explosive, but as an Overseer, he had been trained in the safety procedures involved in its use. The amount contained in a box this size could blow out the entire side wall of this wing of the Inn.

He stared at the innocent-looking shoebox, hardly daring to breathe. Leaning closer, he sniffed again, hoping against hope that he was wrong.

It was certainly akondiit. And there was no reason for it to be here except one: it was a bomb, planted to blow up the Inn. That being the case, there must be some sort of timing device attached. It would be set to go off fairly soon, to lessen the chance of discovery. But how soon?

Francis fought down the impulse to run and tried to calmly consider his options. The sensible thing to do would be to get everyone away from here and call the police. But was there time for that? What if the bomb went off before the police arrived?

Or what if the police got suspicious and asked him a lot of awkward questions? He dared not bring himself to the attention of the legal authorities. For all he knew, he was still wanted in California for Kheersa's murder.

But did he dare risk lives by not calling help?

Were there actually any other lives at risk, beside his own? There were no guests in this wing right now and, to the best of his knowledge, no one was close enough to be in any real danger. But if the bomb went off, damage to the Inn would be devastating.

Perhaps if he picked up the box and carried it into the woods? Would the motion be likely to set it off? No, someone had carried it here and put it in place. He even thought he knew who that someone was, and he didn't think that person had been the one to actually arm the bomb, so it most probably wasn't set to go off if it were moved.

All these considerations had run through Francis' mind in a matter of seconds. He was still crouched face to face with the malevolent shoebox. Very gently, he picked it up and rose to his feet. Backing through the azalea bushes, he walked across the lawn as gingerly as if he were walking on slick ice, keeping the unoccupied wing of the building between himself and the area where there could possibly be other people. He might have a lot of time, or only a couple of seconds, but he dared not think about that now.

For a seemingly-endless fifteen minutes, Francis worked his way along the path Pat had had cleared downriver towards the saltmarsh. No one would be down this way today and the further he got from the Inn, the less damage the bomb would do if it should explode.

It's not going to explode, he told himself grimly. You know enough about this stuff to disarm it, if you have to.

He went gingerly along one of the raised boardwalks above a swampy section of ground, knowing the water beneath him might well be salty if the tide were in. At the end of the walkway, he judged that he was far enough from the Inn. Placing the box gingerly on the ground, Francis squatted in front of it and debated what to do next.

He should call the police.

But maybe he was being paranoid and this wasn't a bomb after all. Just because it smelled like an explosive didn't mean it couldn't be something else.

Well, then, if he called the police and it turned out not to be a bomb, everyone would have a good laugh. And there would still be negative publicity, and the rumor would get out that for some reason the owners of the Atlantic Inn expected to be bombed. Tourists would be afraid to stay here, in that case.

He had to know, but he didn't dare just lift the lid of the shoebox. It could be booby-trapped, set to go off if it were opened.

Taking a screwdriver out of his back pocket, Francis held the box steady with one hand and carefully worked the tip through the cardboard near the center of the lid. When he had bored a small hole, the smell of akondiit grew stronger, but nothing else happened. Gaining confidence, he enlarged the hole and then began peeling the cardboard back with his fingertips so he could see what was inside.

It was akondiit, it was wired to a timer, the numbers on the timer were counting down to zero, and there was no time left to run.

Almost without conscious thought, Francis grabbed the wire that looked as if it led from the timing device to the detonator and wrenched it free.

When he realized he was still alive, he almost fainted from relief. That could've -- That almost -- That might have -- his mind gibbered, even as he stared at the numbers showing on the face of the timer.

But it didn't, he told himself sternly. Now take a deep breath and get ahold of yourself. It's all over.

He straightened up and took a few steps backwards. From where he stood at the edge of the saltmarsh, he could see down the river a fair distance above the low marsh grass and isolated bushes. The harsh growl of a distant chainsaw disturbed the usual sounds of the forest. It stopped abruptly, replaced by a creaking, tearing noise that intensified into the crash of a tree falling.

A part of Francis' mind wondered why trees were being cut down. He hadn't taken Murray's warning seriously when the lawyer had told him Larry Hatfrey had plans to build an elaborate timesharing resort on his property next to the Atlantic Inn. After all, much of that property was wetlands and couldn't be legally developed.

The chainsaw began its destructive song again, accompanied by the sound of another heavy-duty engine that might have been a bulldozer or a backhoe.

Francis glanced down at the bomb, then across the marsh to the woods downriver. Something strange was going on. There was a large section of land entirely bare of trees. He was certain it hadn't been that way a couple of days ago. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to Murray's words. Perhaps the human had known what he was talking about after all, when he had said Larry wanted the Inn out of business, so he could buy up the property cheap and use it as part of his resort.

Well, if that's what Larry thought, he had, as the humans put it, another think coming. With a last glance in the direction of the screaming chainsaw, Francis turned and trotted quickly back to the Inn, leaving the bomb where it was for the time being.

When he returned half an hour later, he had both his old polaroid camera and his business partner with him. Pat examined the disemboweled device nervously as Francis photographed it from several different angles, then waited for the photos to develop.

"All right, boss," she said at last, "I can't argue with you about its being a bomb, but I still say you should have called the police. You might have been killed."

"But I wasn't and no damage has been done," he replied absently, watching the colors in the last photo darken. "Ah, here's a good one. Shows all the details."

Pat shook her head and then wiped the sweat from her forehead. "Mind telling me what you plan to do with the pictures?"

He held out the final photo. "I'm going to mail this one to Larry Hatfrey."'

"Jesus H. Christ, boss! What good do you think that's going to do? We ought to call the police --"

"Pat, whose side are the local police likely to be on, ours or the Klan's?" When she didn't reply, he went on. "Besides, there'll be nothing to connect this to Larry. At best, they might find Willy Roquist's fingerprints on the outside of the box, but you can bet whoever actually assembled this thing was more careful."

Pat considered that a moment in silence. "You really think Willy planted it?"

"Who else?"

It had been only two weeks ago that Willy had come by the Inn in answer to their newspaper ad for a handyman. He had been the only applicant, but that hadn't been why Francis had hired him. From his voice, skin color, and stature, Francis had been almost certain Willy had been the black man involved in the Klan's original attack on the Wagners and later an abortive attack on the Inn. When he caught sight of Willy's dilapidated pickup truck, that had been the clincher. The last two numbers on the license plate matched the two he had been able to make out when he had spied on the Klansmen preparing to throw grenades at the Inn last winter, just before he had scared them away.

"Didn't I tell you we should never have hired him?" Pat reminded him gently.

"Even assuming this was Willy's doing, I still say we're better off with him here where we can keep an eye on him. Perhaps he'll make a slip and give away something we can use against his leaders," Francis said reasonably.

"Somehow I doubt it. I'd rather you'd fire him."

"No. I still think we can get some advantage out of this." He smiled. "As you humans say, 'There's a madness to my method'."

Pat laughed sourly. "You got that right, boss. Okay, you've got the pictures. Now what are we going to do with this stuff? We can't just leave it here."

"Oh, the akondiit is quite harmless now that it's been disconnected from the timer."

"Maybe so, but I can't quite see storing it in the basement with the leftover paint, can you?"

"You've got a point there. Okay, I'll take the detonating device apart, then leave the akondiit itself on the doorstep of the police station."

"Are you crazy?! What if they see you?"

"Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't."

 

They didn't.

 

From then on, Francis patrolled the Inn regularly, looking for other suspicious packages. Two weeks passed and nothing more happened. Memorial Day Weekend left them with almost half their rooms empty. Not an unqualified success, but not a total failure either. Reservations for the summer were still slow in coming. Pat insisted it was no problem, but Francis worried. Most of their guests would have to be humans, but would humans come to a place where a newcomer was part owner?

He rounded the side of the building, turning sharply to leave plenty of space between him and the river. It smelled vile out here tonight. The tide must be in. As he walked, seemingly intent on nothing more than a casual stroll, Francis wondered if it had been a mistake to get involved in buying the Inn in the first place. He should have held on to his money and kept moving. He could lose everything on this gamble. What was he doing here, anyway? Most of the Tenctonese who lived in Cartersville weren't exactly thrilled by his presence.

He glanced uneasily down at his wrist, where the jagged tattoo was hidden by the long-sleeved shirt he wore despite the muggy heat of the night. Well, could he blame them? He'd been a fool to think they might accept him as part of the community. With the exception of Jane and Richard Wagner, no one had asked him to catalyze a child for them, and he'd been here for a year now.

A year? Had it been that long? Yes, it had been June when he'd arrived, and here it was June again. He shook his head. Staying in one place too long. If word ever got back to Piedra Frelani that he was here --

But it wouldn't. Not from an obscure little beach resort town on the opposite side of the continent from California. There was nothing here that would draw Piedra's attention, nothing here that any of the Overseers would want. He was safe.

Safe. Ha! Then why am I out patrolling my own property for more bombs?

Absently massaging his aching shoulder, he reminded himself he'd far rather face the wrath of the Ku Klux Klan than run afoul of Piedra and her associates once again.

As he circled around the front of the building, he thought he could make out someone sitting on a lounge chair next to the pool. It was well past midnight, so the pool should have been closed and the gate locked long ago. Probably just a guest, but he'd better check.

A gravel road circled in front of the Inn, holding the pool area in its loop. Francis walked carefully, but a bit of gravel crunched under his foot, loud against the background chorus of frogs and insects.

A shadowy figure rose from the chair, swiveling to face him and demanding in a harsh whisper, "Who's there? Speak up or I'll -- aw, shit, boss. Is that you?"

Francis had recognized Pat's voice on the first word, but he stood still until he knew she had seen him clearly. The black woman kept a gun behind the Front Desk and he wasn't sure she might not be carrying it now. No sense getting himself shot by mistake.

"It's me," he replied, only then moving over to the gate and approaching her. He sat down in one of the chairs. "What's the matter? Can't you sleep?"

"Not too well, no. Every time I hear a noise --" She let the thought trail off.

"I know what you mean. But I've been all over the place and didn't see anyone. Or anything."

"Um," was all she said to that. "Have you heard there are two more newcomers in town? A doctor and his sister."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Don't know how they expect to make a living. Very few humans would go to a Tenctonese doctor, and I'm not sure there's enough of you folks here to keep him in business." She shrugged. "Anyway, they're here. Willy's been hired to be their gardener. The sister called me today to check on his references."

"What did you tell her?"

She shrugged again. "What could I tell her? I have no proof of anything. I just said he seemed to be a good worker, as far as I knew."

Francis couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he just sat in silence, looking up at the stars in the clear sky above them. He still had trouble adjusting to the fact that the stars remained steadfastly in their places when viewed from the surface of a world. It had been different on the ship.

"You know, boss," Pat said. "I took a group of guests on the saltmarsh trail this afternoon and I could hear a lot of noise further down the river. I went back later on by myself and I could see people with chainsaws cutting down the trees and bushes around the edge of the marsh just beyond where our property ends. I think Larry's getting serious about that resort he wants to build."

"So?"

"So I wonder if he's planning to fill in the marsh. And if so, how he got permission to do it. That's wetlands, and it's supposed to be protected."

"Maybe we just ought to check this out," Francis said thoughtfully.

"Maybe we just ought to do that, yes."

 

"Pat, something screwy is going on here," he announced on the following afternoon, leaning on the cedar top of the Front Desk. She pushed back her chair and regarded him with an upraised eyebrow.

"This morning I checked at the Town Hall to find out just how much of that property next to ours is owned by Seagull Realty. Remember I told you about Murray's warning and how Larry was still trying to buy one last section?"

Pat nodded.

"Well, the sale on that last piece went through two months ago."

"Figures, with the kind of money he's got at his disposal."

"Yeah. While I was there, I also asked whether there had been any permits filed to build on that land."

"And --?" Pat prompted.

"Nothing yet. So next I called the Coastal Green Society up in Eddington to find out more about wetlands. It seems that there are several things that make something wetlands. There must be a high enough water table to cause the ground to be saturated or inundated by surface water or groundwater most of the time, and there must be the sort of vegetation that is adapted to these wet soil conditions. Without that, it's not covered by the conservation laws."

"So? No, wait a minute, I see what you're driving at."

Francis frowned. "I'm not driving. I'm standing right here."

"Figure of speech, boss." She waved it away with a negligent gesture. "You mean you think Larry is cutting down trees and stuff, and digging ditches to drain the water from a good-sized portion of his land, so that by the time he applies for a permit, it won't qualify as wetlands anymore. Right?"

"Right. I asked the Greens if that would work. They said it has before, if things are kept quiet and the permits are pushed through without the local community finding out and protesting."

"Yeah. And I'll bet a few heavy-duty bribes in the right places help things along, too."

Now that his suspicions had been put into words, Francis began having second thoughts. "This whole thing is getting very expensive. You really think Larry has that kind of money?"

"He doesn't have to, as long as his backers do."

"Backers? Oh, you mean people who invest in his resort?"

"Yeah. A lot of these big developments are financed by people you never see, and they aren't always decent, honest business folks, either." She got to her feet and stretched. "Mind the Desk for a minute, will you? I'm going into the rec room to get a cup of coffee."

Since he'd been on earth, Francis had had some experience with the sort of people whose dealings were never seen. The Overseers hadn't wasted any time organizing their own underworld operations, fitting in with their human counterparts without much trouble. A lot of their illegal money went into seemingly legitimate business ventures.

What if there were Overseers backing Larry? No, that was so unlikely as to be ridiculous. Of all the money-making schemes available in this country, a resort in an obscure little Southern town would never come to their attention. Besides, Larry was Klan. He'd never deal with Tenctonese, Overseers or not.

Francis didn't have time to follow this train of thought very far before the phone on the desk rang. He picked it up and said automatically, "Atlantic Inn. May I help you?"

"Sure can, slag," a muffled voice answered. "Lay off asking too many questions and mailing unsolicited photos, or you and the rest of your friends are going to be very sorry."

The phone went dead.

 

It was only a couple of days later that Francis pulled his van into a parking spot on the street in front of Dr. Lee's combined home and office, cutting the engine and turning off the windshield wipers. He sat in the car, watching the rain from an afternoon thundershower splatter on the pavement. Lightning cut an electric arc across the sky, followed by a sharp crack of thunder.

He waited, enjoying the storm and knowing it was unlikely to last much longer. In a few minutes, the rain would stop and he'd be able to go inside to see if Jane and Sandy were ready to leave. Jane's old car had decided not to start again, so he had combined a trip to town to run some errands with driving her in for Sandy's check-up. He'd stopped at the thrift shop as Pat had suggested, finding a good pair of workpants for himself plus two outfits he hoped would fit the baby.

Glancing idly at Dr. Lee's stately old home, he concluded the doctor must be rather prosperous. No other newcomers lived in this section of town, with its large houses and yards fronting on the country club grounds. Just across the street, a few determined golfers huddled in the meagre shelter of a stand of dripping loblolly pines.

Francis hadn't yet met Robert E. Lee, but Richard spoke highly of the young Tenctonese doctor. In fact, as a physician's assistant, Richard had hopes of going into practice with Dr. Lee, but he hadn't mentioned it to the doctor yet. Dr. Lee and his older sister, Gypsy, lived alone in the big house, with the sister running the office and acting as his nurse. Francis had almost made up his mind to make an appointment with the doctor in the hopes that he might have some suggestions on how to deal with the almost constant ache in his shoulder, when another crack of thunder split the air, actually shaking the van.

He was outside and running toward the house before he realized what he had reacted to. That hadn't been thunder at all; it had been an explosion.

While he was still running, a section of the wall of the house buckled and caved in. Francis plunged through the door Jane had used, a side door that surely led to the doctor's office. Dust and smoke swirled around him in the short hallway, permeated by the acrid reek of akondiit. More walls might be about to crumble, so he had to move fast. But which way to go?

Above the ominous crackle of flames somewhere in the building, he could just make out a baby's wail. Francis followed the sound through the smoky haze, shouldering open a door jammed half off its hinges.

Tumbled furniture and pieces of smashed sheetrock lay strewn about the small room, but the explosion had not been centered here, since the outside wall still stood.

"Jane!" Francis called frantically. "Where are you?!"

The only response was Sandy's wail, which abruptly turned into a cough. 

Francis dug through the debris, guided by the sound. Seeing a leg protruding from beneath the edge of an overturned sofa, he hoisted the heavy piece of furniture up a few feet into the air.

A middle-aged Tenctonese woman lay curled around the baby, protecting Sandy with her own body. The baby clutched a silver rattle in one small fist, waving it angrily and continuing to scream. Although the woman's right leg was cut and bleeding badly, she groaned and struggled to get up as soon as she felt the weight lifted away, refusing to release Sandy as Francis helped her to her feet.

*Find the others,* she gasped. *I can carry this baby to safety.* 

*The mother?* Francis asked urgently.

*She was standing -- there. By my desk.* Then the woman's eyes widened and she glanced in the direction of the next room, where smoke seeped around the edges of the door. *Celine! My brother was in the examining room with a patient! I've got to --*

This must be Gypsy, the sister. Francis put out a hand, stopping her. *I'll go after them if I can. You get out of here.* 

*My brother -- *

*Go!*

She bit her lip and nodded, limping toward the door to the hall even as Francis began heaving aside the pile of debris in the spot where Jane might have been standing. Gypsy had barely left when something fell with a muted crash in the next room. The air grew hotter and smoke poured thickly around the door. He wouldn't be able to remain in the house for long. If Dr. Lee was in the next room, he was almost certainly dead by now, along with his patient.

By the time Francis found Jane's limp body, flames had eaten their way through the door and into the room. Scooping her up in his arms, he leapt cautiously over the jagged spikes of broken glass that had once been a picture window, landing hard on the wet grass outside and running away from the house. 

The cool rain felt good on the scorched skin of his head and face.

Gypsy stumbled toward him, clutching the squalling infant to her chest. As soon as he had laid Jane down on the ground, Gypsy thrust Sandy into his arms.

*My brother,* she rasped, voice rough with smoke and dust. *Got to go after him.*

Francis looked at the house. The window he had just jumped through now belched smoke and flame. The entire side wall would collapse at any moment.

He grabbed her arm. *No. It's no use. I'm sorry.*

She stared uncomprehendingly, then tried to shake off his hand.

*Got to -- * She began coughing, struggling harder as her voice failed. When she caught sight of the tattoo on the wrist holding her arm, the fear on her face turned to terror. *You're --*

*Yes,* he replied calmly. *But that doesn't matter now. You mustn't go back into the house. It's about to collapse.* She just stared, her face deathly pale. *Ms. Lee, please. I'm not going to hurt you. I would have gone after your brother if I could, but now I need to look after Jane. If I let you go, will you --*

The side wall of the house bulged out and crumbled, drowning his words. Still holding Gypsy, he looked down at Jane, relieved to see that she was now coughing and beginning to stir, despite the blood that seeped steadily from a gash on the side of her head. A siren cut through the noise of the flames, drawing quickly closer. Someone must have called the fire department.

*No, no, no, no,* Gypsy repeated steadily, staring at the burning house. Raindrops streamed down her face in place of the tears she was still too shocked to shed.

 

Francis paced the short length of the waiting room at the county hospital, anxiously awaiting Richard's arrival. Although Sandy seemed all right, Jane had been coughing and choking when she'd disappeared on a stretcher into the emergency room. The human doctors might not know how to treat newcomers. They might not have any newcomer blood, if either Gypsy or Jane had bled enough to require a transfusion. Someone might make a terrible mistake and --

Where the hell was Richard? Had he gotten here yet? Perhaps he was with his patients even now, and no one had bothered to tell Francis.

Pat! Celine, he had forgotten to call Pat and tell her what had happened! She had expected him back at the Inn at least an hour ago. By now, she'd be very worried.

Francis was searching his pockets for a coin to feed into the payphone when Richard came through the door. He dropped the receiver and started asking questions, but Richard beat him to it.

*Don't worry, they're all right. Jane inhaled too much smoke and dust, but she's breathing easier now. The cut on her head was deep but not serious. No concussion. Sandy's doing fine. Ms. Lee was extremely upset, but we've treated the gash on her leg and given her a sedative. She's asleep now.*

Relieved about his friends, Francis had yet another concern. *What about Dr. Lee?*

Richard shook his head.

*And the patient who was with him?*

*We don't have enough of a body to immediately identify who it is, but I'm sure we'll find out soon.*

*I'm going to phone Pat and let her know what happened.*

Richard nodded, then said reluctantly, *I suppose I should thank you. Gypsy said you saved her, and my family.*

Francis didn't answer. He just picked up the telephone and began dialing.

*The police want to talk to you,* Richard added.

Francis stopped halfway through the number. *What about?* The last thing he wanted was to get involved with the police.

Richard touched him lightly on the shoulder. *Hey, take it easy. They only want your statement of what happened, that's all. You don't have to look as if the Overseers are coming after you.* He stopped short, realizing what he had said. *Damn. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.*

*Forget it,* Francis replied tersely, trying to hide the shock he had felt by once again picking up the phone.

When he had gotten through to Pat and briefed her on what had happened, she insisted that he come right back to the Inn. Once he was there to watch things, she'd go to the hospital and stay with Jane and the baby as long as was necessary.

Francis agreed readily. His clothes were singed and filthy, and his shoulder ached badly from digging through the debris at the Lees' house and carrying Jane to safety. A shower and a good night's rest would be more than welcome.

 

A key turning in the lock on the outside door woke Francis from an uneasy sleep. He was lying on the couch in Pat's apartment, where he'd be better able to keep an eye on the Inn while she was at the hospital. By the time Pat got around the Front Desk and opened the door, he had chased Slinky off his chest and was sitting up.

"How are they doing?" he asked, already worried by the look on her face.

"Jane's breathing easily and Sandy's fine. They'll be released later today. Gypsy's leg looks pretty nasty, but Richard says it's not serious."

Pat still stood by the door and her expression hadn't changed.

"But --?" he prompted.

"In addition to Dr. Lee, Verna Dixon is dead. She was the patient in the examining room when the bomb went off. Dix showed up at the hospital, after he got back from work and discovered she never came home from her appointment."

Francis leaned his head into one hand, covering his eyes. Verna and Mason Dixon had remembered him from the Ship, much to his shame. Dix, as the man preferred to be called, had shown him nothing but hatred, but Verna had been willing to talk to him. In time, she might have become a friend, or at least no longer an enemy.

But now she was dead, and it was partly his own fault. The bomb that had killed her had been the same kind as the one that had been meant to destroy the Inn. If he had done more about that first bomb, perhaps the second one might never have been used. Regardless of who had actually constructed and planted it, he knew very well who was behind all this. He shouldn't have wasted time playing games with Larry Hatfrey. He should have stopped him sooner, but he had wanted to keep it legal.

Well, this was what came of playing by the humans' rules when the humans themselves had no such compunctions.

With a brief curse, Francis got up from the couch and strode out the door. He opened a drawer behind the Front Desk, taking Pat's gun and putting it in his pocket. As he hurried out of the building, he passed the morning desk clerk on her way in.

"Hello, Mr. Bernardone," she greeted him cheerily as she went in the door. "You're up early."

He gave her a blank stare. By then, Pat had caught up with him and taken hold of his arm.

"Where are you going with my gun?" she demanded softly.

"To take care of some business. Something I should have done sooner. I'm going to put a stop to this, and I'm going to do it now, before more of my people are killed."

"Oh, I see. And how do you think you can stop it? Shoot Larry Hatfrey?"

"He's responsible for that bomb. I'm sure of it. Just as he was responsible for the one that almost got the Inn."

"Are you sure? Sure enough to kill someone?"

"Damnit, Pat! I've got to do something! I can't just sit here and watch my friends murdered."

"I didn't know you considered Verna your friend."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do. I'm angry and frustrated too. But going after Larry isn't going to help."

What did she know about what would help? It wasn't her people being killed. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the black woman.

"You may have to put up with this sort of shit, but I don't. I can do something about it. Someone's going to pay for this, and pay dearly." He jerked the gun out of his pocket. "Here, take this thing. I don't need your puny little weapon. I can take Larry apart with my bare hands, if I want to. Or do much worse than that. No one does this to me, no one! And especially not some miserable tert bastard."

His words were coming quicker now, and his voice had risen along with his anger. Francis stopped for the space of a breath, telling himself he sounded like a hysterical human. When he continued, he spoke much softer, but the overall effect was more terrifying than his previous anger.

"I'm going to make them sorry they ever started this. When they see what's left of Larry Hatfrey, the rest of those white-sheeted cowards will crawl off into their holes and leave us alone. I don't have to stand for this. I'm not some wretched cowering slave. I'm --" 

"— an Overseer?" she interrupted coldly.

Francis closed his mouth abruptly. No, that wasn't fair. She shouldn't have said that. He had the right to take revenge. Furious, he raised one hand, ready to knock Pat to the ground.

She just stood there staring at him. She had to know how much stronger he was, and she should have been afraid. The gun he had shoved into her hand was aimed only at the ground, not at him, despite his threatening posture.

Confronted by her calm defiance, Francis wilted. He lowered his fist. "Celine! What am I doing?" 

"It's all right, boss. I know how it is. Old habits die hard." She tried an amused smile. "Maybe you should do like they do in Alcoholics Anonymous. You've heard of them, haven't you?"

He nodded shortly, wondering what she was getting at.

"Take it a day at a time," Pat went on. "Each day you don't torture someone, you're ahead."

"That's not funny," he said through clenched teeth. But the absurdity of what she had said was just humorous enough to begin to erode his rage a little.

"I know it," she replied, her smile fading into seriousness. "Francis, I want to show you something. Will you come with me?"

"Where? What is it?" he demanded, still on edge.

"Just trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"

Trust somebody? A human? Surely she couldn't know what she was asking. And yet, hadn't she proven herself a friend many times over? He ought to at least find out what she wanted. There was plenty of time. He could take Larry Hatfrey apart later. The man wasn't going anywhere.

He nodded, hoping she hadn't noticed the moment of hesitation.

"That's settled then. Get in my car."

Neither of them said a word as they drove away from the Inn and toward Cartersville. Pat took the turnoff that led across the high bridge to Turkle Island, but still she remained silent. She crossed the bridge, then headed down the road to the east end of the island, pulling into the parking lot at the public beach access.

Francis had never been here before. The air was foul with the smell of the ocean, but he had gotten used to that over the past year. it was only more concentrated than usual, that was all.

Pat got out of the car. "Come on," she said.

"This is where we're going? Pat --"

But she was already walking away. He got out and trotted reluctantly after her, following her up a path in the side of a small hill made of sand. The morning was gray and overcast, with a cool damp breeze blowing off the ocean.

As they crested the top of the hill, the panorama stretching before him took his breath away.

White-topped waves trooped in through Yaupon Inlet in serried ranks, the thunder of their deadly march making an ominous drumming against the shore. Off to the right, a rock jetty ran along the seaward end of the island, holding back the eroding sand. The black rocks protruded a short way out into the surf, where an occasional large wave threw itself against them with sufficient force to send up a glistening curtain of spray.

A few humans wandered along the beach dispiritedly. It wasn't a good day for sun-lovers, although a couple of people were out on the jetty fishing.

Francis stiffened, his hearts pounding faster at the awesome vista. Pat came over and slid her hand inside his elbow, as if to take his arm. "Come on," she said softly, pulling him toward the front face of the dune.

"Down there?! You must be crazy!"

"Don't worry, boss. I have no intention of taking you swimming. I just want to show you something."

Francis swallowed the protest that rose to his lips. After all, she did know about newcomers and seawater. She couldn't be planning anything dangerous.

Very cautiously, he allowed her to lead him down the dune and over towards the foot of the rock jetty. She stopped at what she probably regarded as a safe distance from the churning water and flying spray, but it was a bit too close for Francis' peace of mind. The ocean was unpredictable, with its varying tides and wildly surging motion. He had visions of a huge wave rising over the jetty and crashing down on top of them.

"All right," he said shortly. "What is it you want to show me? Make it quick."

Pat stared tranquilly out at the water. "Look at it, boss. Just watch it for a minute." 

"Damnit, I've been watching it! What do you expect me to see?" 

Unperturbed, she continued to stare out to sea. A flock of brown pelicans flew by, skimming low over the waves in a ragged line.

"Relax. Tide's going out. It won't come any closer than it already is."

"How do you know?" he asked, curious despite his revulsion.

Pat pointed to the beach. "See that stretch of dark wet sand just above the waves? That's where water used to be, not long ago. If the tide were coming in, that sand would be dry and light-colored."

"Oh."

"Watch the waves break on the jetty, boss. They aren't as unpredictable and chaotic as they seem. Every so often, a few big ones come in, then smaller ones, then bigger ones. And they only come up just so far. After a while, you'll see the extreme range of where the spray hits."

He studied the waves for a time. Now that Pat had brought it to his attention, he did begin to see a pattern in what he had assumed to be chaos. It wasn't quite as unpredictable as it had seemed.

"How much closer could we get without being splashed?" she asked casually. "Could we safely stand on that high rock over there, for instance?"

Francis considered. "No. But that flat one over towards the left would be okay."

"Let's do it."

"Pat –"

"Don't you trust your own judgement?" she asked sharply. "Is it safe, or isn't it?"

The rock surface was perfectly dry and well beyond the reach of the spray. All that held him back was his fear.

"It's safe," he admitted.

"Then come on."

Francis gritted his teeth and walked closer to the ocean. When Pat stepped up on the flat rock, he almost turned back. Then he joined her on top of the granite boulder, hardly daring to breathe.

Waves broke against the jetty, with an occasional one coming a bit closer than he could have wished, but still never so much as a drop of water reached them on their vantage point. The breeze wasn't strong enough to ruffle Pat's tight-curled hair, but it blew her collar up against her neck as she looked across the inlet.

After a time, she spoke, her voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves. "Now, does it still seem as awful?"

"No," he admitted grudgingly.

"Do you see what it is I wanted to show you?"

He frowned. What was she talking about? There was nothing here to see. Nothing but the dreaded ocean, with himself standing at its edge, closer than he'd ever thought he'd be, but still safe and relatively calm. 

He swallowed his pride and granted her the point, saying only, "That if you face your fear and learn to understand it, it loses much of its power over you?"

"You got it, boss. Now let's take it a little further. What do you fear? Other than the ocean, of course."

He didn't even have to think about that one. The thing he feared most was Piedra Frelani and her friends. But he couldn't say that. What came next? "The Klan."

Pat shook her head. "Too easy and too obvious. Try again. What do you fear?"

Not the Klan. But the bombs, the broken and burned bodies; surely, that was reasonable cause for being afraid. But was there something else, something he feared even more than pain and death? And even more than Piedra?

He remembered the searing rage that had filled his hearts, the exhilaration that had gripped him when he had thought of tearing Larry apart barehanded.

He bowed his head with shame. Pat was right.

"I fear being forced to become what I once was," he admitted, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves.

"And who is the only person in the world who could make you do that?"

Once more, her question took him by surprise. This time, he sorted through the obvious answers before replying. Who could force him? Larry, by orchestrating the attacks on himself and his friends? Piedra Frelani, by finding him and forcing him back into her service? No, that wasn't it. Human or newcomer, all they could do was hurt or kill him. They could never make him be anything.

Ah, that sounded good! But was it so? Hadn't Piedra made him into an Overseer? If she hadn't broken his spirit with her insidious tortures, then shown him the uses of power and offered that power to him --

He shook his head slightly. She may have done all that, but in the end, it was he who had chosen to take her offer, wasn't it?

Francis closed his eyes briefly and shivered. Then he looked at Pat and answered her question. "Me."

They stared at the waves for a few more minutes. Finally, Francis crossed his arms and turned to her.

"All right, you made your point. I'm not going after Larry. But if we have to play by the rules and they don't, we're never going to win. Maybe we've been wrong all along. Is it worth people dying, just so a few newcomers can live here? Is anything worth that, Pat?"

"It took my people 200 years to even get close to equality, boss. And women are still working at it, not to mention gays."

Her lips quirked upward in a suppressed smile and she punched him lightly on the arm. "But look how far we've come. Why, today there's a black man in the Klan, if I can believe what you say about Willy! And I just read in the paper that the Marine Corps is about to train the first group of women fighter pilots, over at the base in Willemton. If that's not progress --" 

"This isn't funny," he objected. "Two Tenctonese are dead."

"I realize that, Francis. I didn't know Verna all that well, but she was my friend too."

She linked her arm through his and started leading him away from the water, all levity gone from her expression. "If there's one thing, I've learned in my life, it's that prejudice is not going to go away because you stop one person or one group of people. It's going to take longer than that. Expect to live with this all your life, but keep at it, and keep it out of your head. Let it be their problem, not yours, or you're lost before you begin." She glanced over at him as they plodded across the dune to the parking lot. "End of speech. Ready to go back to the Inn and put in a day's work?"

"Yeah. But there's something we've got to do first."

Pat raised an eyebrow in inquiry as she unlocked the car.

"We're going to have a little talk with Willy Roquist. And here's how we're going to do it."

Francis explained as they drove home.

 

"SueAnn," Pat greeted her front desk clerk, "you got any idea where our maintenance man is?"

"Yes, ma'am. Willy's supposed to be fixing the leak in the bathtub in -- um, let me see now –" she consulted the room rack -- "number 205."

"Thanks. C'mon, boss. Let's go take a look."

They climbed the stairs and headed along the corridor. Most of the rooms on this side were empty today, it being a Wednesday. A few of the even-numbered rooms across the hall were occupied, since those rooms looked out at the river, but the odd-numbered ones sold last, despite their lower price.

"Ready?" Francis asked softly.

When Pat nodded, he shoved the door open and strode across the room into the bathroom. Willy was squatting in the tub, surrounded by various pieces of the water faucet. Grabbing the startled maintenance man by the front of his shirt, Francis hauled him to his feet and pinned him up against the tile wall behind the tub.

"Where'd you get the bomb you planted at Dr. Lee's?" Francis demanded harshly.

"I dunno what you're talkin' about, man," Willy gasped. "You're crazy."

"Not half as crazy as you are if you think you can get away with this." Francis twisted the fabric of the shirt, squeezing his fists against the black man's neck. "You think I don't know you're in the Klan? I recognized you right away by your voice, you tert bastard. You're the one who whipped me, in fact."

Willy's eyes went even wider. "No, man. Not me. I wouldn't do that. No, sir."

Francis tightened his grip and lifted his victim clear off the floor. Willy began to choke. He grabbed Francis' wrists and tried to get loose, but his considerable human strength was no match for the newcomer's.

Pat rushed into the bathroom, adding her strength to Willy's as she tried to pry Francis' fingers loose.

"Stop it, boss! Stop it! You'll kill him!" she protested urgently.

Francis smiled dangerously and let the man down. "No. I won't kill him. Not yet, anyway."

Willy coughed a few times and cursed softly. Even though the black human was several inches taller than he was, Francis managed to look down his nose at him and fix him with a cold glare. "If you didn't plant those bombs, who did? You had every opportunity, since you're my handyman and the Lee's gardener."

"If you thought I was one of them Klansmen, why'd you hire me in the first place?" Willy objected.

"To keep an eye on you, of course. Now stop trying to mislead me and start telling me where you got the explosives to make the bombs. That's Tenctonese stuff. It's not readily available to humans."

"Sure it is. The military's got it," Willy replied.

"Oh? Keep talking." Francis twisted his shirt collar again as a reminder.

"He can't talk, boss, if you keep choking him like that," Pat pointed out. On cue, Francis eased off.

Willy swallowed. "Now, look. Let's be reasonable. You got no call to blame me for --"

Willy stopped short when Francis brought his knee up into his groin. Pat shook her head and clicked her tongue in disapproval as the black man stifled a scream and tried unsuccessfully to double over.

Well, what do you know? Francis thought. It really does work on humans, doesn't it?

When Willy was able to talk again, his voice shook.

"Lady, call him off, willya? It wasn't my fault. I didn't want to -- I mean, I didn't have no choice. I gotta do what they tell me."

"What did they tell you, Willy?" Pat asked. "Talk to me, and maybe I can convince him to let you go. If not --" She shrugged and rolled her eyes expressively --"Well, what's one more dead nigger, in this neck of the woods?"

Her words didn't have quite the effect she'd hoped for. "What would you know about dead niggers, Ms. Fisher?" he snarled. "You, with your college education and white folks' ways? Why, you don't even talk like one of us no more. But don't be foolin' yourself, girl. In their eyes, you're still a nigger. That ain't changed none."

Francis knew Pat well enough to be sure that insult had hit home, but he hoped she'd be able to ignore it and go on with this little game they were playing.

"What I am has little to do with anything, Willy. It's what you are that counts now, and you're a murderer."

"No! I didn't mean to kill those folks! They told me the house would be empty by the time the bomb went off. All we were doing was trying to scare off those uppity slags, to keep more of them from movin' in around here and takin' our jobs. I didn't mean to --"

"Who told you the house would be empty, Willy?" Francis asked, his voice projecting quiet menace.

"The -- the leader. And Jo. She said no one was gonna get hurt. All I had to do --" His voice faded out when he saw the look on Francis' face. "Don't kill me, man. I had to do it."

"Why?" Pat interjected. "What would have happened if you hadn't?"

Willy just looked sullen, so Francis figured it was his move again. "You are trying my patience --" he began.

Pat interrupted quickly. "Willy, I think you'd better start talking to us."

The black man's eyes darted from Pat to Francis and back again. Surprisingly, he gave a low chuckle. "You're playin' good cop/bad cop, ain'tcha? I seen them do that on TV."

Francis still held Willy's collar with both hands. Willy's eyes flickered quickly to the edge of the black tattoo that showed from under Francis' shirtsleeve, then up to meet the newcomer's eyes. "If someone like you really meant to hurt me, I'd be dead by now," he stated carefully. "Ain't that true?"

Francis dropped his hold on the other man and stepped back, nodding his head and concurring, "Very dead. Yes."

With a rather nervous laugh, Willy slumped down to sit on the edge of the bathtub. "You really had me goin' there for a while."

"Willy, need I remind you that you're far from in the clear?" Pat said silkily. "You just admitted that you planted those bombs, and I'd still like to know why. What would Larry Hatfrey have done if you'd refused?"

At the mention of Larry's name, Willy groaned and closed his eyes. "You know about -- him?"

"Oh, we've known about him for a long time, haven't we, Pat?" Francis said, leaning back against the washbasin in what he hoped was a relaxed stance. "Don't tell me you humans think that hiding behind a mask makes you invisible? Sooner or later, someone sees through the disguise."

"Why, Willy?" Pat persisted. "Why would you do such a thing? You don't seem like a bad man --"

His expression changed abruptly. "You don't know nothin' about me, girl," he said viciously. "You really want to know what happened?" Pat nodded. "All right, then keep that educated mouth of yours shut for a coupla minutes and I'll tell you."

Pat scowled at the insult but didn't say anything.

"I grew up in the city, where there ain't no way for a black man to make real money except sellin' drugs or sellin' women. When I got out of jail last time, I decided I'd had enough of that. I moved here, married a good woman, had a kid." He stopped for a minute, rubbing a hand over his face. "Can't hardly read or write, so I couldn't get me a decent job, but my wife cleans rooms at the new Sheraton out on Turkle Island and I did a little gardening here and there, washed dishes in restaurants in the summertime, that sort of thing. We weren't doin' very good, but we weren't on welfare neither. I finally got a job on a road maintenance crew but then I got fired."

He looked at Francis, his lips tightening. "They hired one of you guys instead, because you're stronger. Then --" he hesitated, taking a deep breath -- "Larry Hatfrey come to me, talkin' 'bout a job with Seagull Development. It was good money, man. I had to take it."

"So what happened?" Pat prompted.

"I started out doing regular work for him. You know, fixing up old buildings, that sort of thing. Best job I'd ever had. Then he came to me one night, little over a year ago. Started talkin' about all the slags movin' in, takin' our jobs. That kinda thing. When he brought up the Klan, that made me real worried-like, but he said it was different now, we were all humans and we had to stand together against the slags.

"At first I didn't want no part of it, but he told me I wouldn't have a job if I didn't join. Well, all right, I figured to join, but not really do anything, know what I mean?"

Francis nodded encouragingly. "Go on."

"It felt weird. Those white robes and all. The first time we burned a cross on someone's lawn, I almost set myself on fire, I was that scared. But after the time when you showed up, I'd had enough." He looked at Francis, pleading for understanding. "If you'd screamed or something when I was whippin' you, I don't think I could have gone on. Shit, man, I been in fistfights and stuff like that when I hadda, but I don't even spank my own kid!" Willy shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face again.

"Anyway, after that I tried to tell Larry I wanted out, but he wouldn't allow it. Said he knew about my time in jail, and if I tried to quit, he'd see that everyone else knew about it too, then no one would hire me." He looked up at them, his voice rough. "I had to do it. I needed the money. My kid gotta eat."

Pat was scowling. "There are other ways to earn a living."

"Sure. Tell me you would have hired me, knowin' I was a ex-con."

Pat tried to say something, then closed her eyes and shook her head. Willy nodded, satisfied that he'd scored his point.

"It was Larry's idea for me to go to work for you, and later on for the Lees. He's been payin' me my regular salary in addition to what I get from you," Willy went on. "I been tellin' him how it's goin' here, how busy you been, that kinda thing."

"Tell me about the bomb," Francis said softly. He put his hand on the human's shoulder in what he hoped would be interpreted as a gesture of sympathy. But even as he did so, he realized it was more than just an act. Willy was clearly upset over what he had done.

"I didn't know what it was, the first time. They just said to leave that box near the end of the empty wing, that's all. Got me a big bonus for that too. But I didn't know it was a bomb. I saw you carry it into the woods, but it never went off or nothin' --"

"What did you think it was, a birthday present?"

"I didn't think, man! I couldn't afford to think!" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and stared at a point somewhere beyond Francis' shoulder. "I only figured it out after -- after I left the one at Dr. Lee's. Then I remembered --"

Francis wasn't sure why, but he believed the black man's story. He himself had had a taste of being relatively poor ever since he'd tied all his money up in the Inn. He had some idea what it was like to be in a financial vise, and he didn't even have a wife or children to worry about. It did something to your self-esteem. Something nasty. And, although he knew he himself was hardly as bad off as Willy might have been, he remembered some of the things he had done for money in the past and was ashamed.

But he had to put that aside for now. The main thing was to get information while Willy was still in the mood to give it out.

"Who's this Jo you mentioned earlier?"

"You don't want to mess with her!"

It was a woman, then. From the ambiguous name, he hadn't been sure. "Who is she?"

"She's a Marine, from the air station up near Willemton. Good with weapons, grenades, stuff like that."

Ah, yes. That would be the woman Murray had spoken of. No doubt the same one who had thrown the knife at him at the Klan rally they had disrupted.

"Her last name?"

Willy looked away. "Dunno," he mumbled.

"Oh, you know, all right. Tell us who she is," Pat said. "Unless, of course, you'd rather explain all this to the police?"

Willy's shoulders shook in a huge sigh. "Aw, shit," he breathed in defeat. "Her name's Sanzari. She's a captain, I think. At least, I heard someone call her that once."

"Tell us more about this Captain Sanzari," Francis said.

"I can't." He held up a hand to forestall any objections. "I don't know much about her, other than that she's in that new program the Marines have got. You know, the one where they're trainin' women to be fighter pilots?"

"What's so new about teaching women to fly airplanes?" Francis asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Not airplanes, boss. Fighter planes. Women Marines haven't been allowed in that sort of combat position before."

"Why would anyone want to be?"

Pat sighed softly. "I'll explain it some other time. Just take it from me, it's something she wants badly, if she's a gung-ho Marine-type."

Stifling his automatic question about how a gung-ho Marine differed from an ordinary one, Francis made a mental note to ask about it later.

Willy had listened to their interchange in silence, but his thoughts seemed to have been elsewhere. "What are you gonna do to me now that you know about the bombs? You gonna turn me over to the cops?"

His attention pulled back to the present, Francis replied, "I'm not going to do anything to you. I want you to keep right on working at the Inn, same as before."

"Boss, do you think that's wise?" Pat interjected.

"I think Willy's not going to plant anymore bombs. And I think he's not going to tell Larry about our little talk. Am I right?"

The black man nodded enthusiastically.

"Good. Then we'll just let things go on as they were for a while longer, except instead of Willy being a spy for the Klan, he'll be a spy for us. Have we got a deal?"

Willy looked suspicious. "Why you doin' this, man? Why you want to trust me, after I whipped you and done these other awful things?"

Francis fixed him with a level gaze. "I've done far worse than that, and yet there are people who have trusted me."

Only the flicker of the man's black eyes down to Francis' wrist gave away the fact that he understood what the newcomer was talking about.

"Come on, Pat. Let's get out of here and let our maintenance man get on with his repair job."

As they walked down the hall, Pat said, "He's going to go right to Larry, boss." 

"I don't think so."

"You don't know humans the way I do."

"You don't know guilt the way I do."

"Boss --"

He held up one hand to forestall her objection. "I know we're taking a chance. But what could I do? If we fire Willy, Larry will know we're on to him and he'll find some other way to keep track of us. I'm not entirely sure we can trust Willy either, but it's usually better to have an enemy you know, instead of one you don't."

"Hold on a minute," Pat said, grabbing his shirtsleeve and pulling him down to sit on the stairs next to her. "I just had a thought. Do you reckon perhaps bombing the Lees' house was meant to be a distraction? Knowing Larry Hatfrey's interest in building his resort, isn't his main target likely to be the Inn, rather than a doctor's house? Oh sure, anything that puts down an uppity slag -- and Dr. Lee and his sister were certainly uppity, buying that fancy house and all -- is definitely on his agenda. But don't you think his real interest is where his money is? And that's us."

"I came to that conclusion too. I think we can expect more trouble in the near future," he said grimly.

"So what are we going to do now?"

"We're going find out about this Jo Sanzari. If we can take her out of action, that ought to put a crimp in Larry's plans. He'll need someone else to do his dirty work. Or he'll have to do it himself."

"People like that can always find someone else to do their dirty work, boss."

"Maybe so. But let's see what we can find out about Captain Sanzari, since we can't pin anything directly on Larry yet."

But any further action in that direction had to wait for a couple of days. Verna Dixon and Robert Lee had to be mourned and laid to rest first.

Verna's funeral was every bit as gut-wrenching as Francis had feared it would be. Leaning heavily on Richard's shoulder, Dix could hardly stop crying long enough to join in the funeral chant at the cemetery. Jane was there, her head wrapped in a turban of bandages, her face pale and drawn. Even Gypsy appeared, sitting in a wheelchair with her injured leg propped up on the footrest. Scarlett had literally taken charge of the smaller woman, insisting that Gypsy move into her house with her until her injuries healed and other arrangements could be made.

As the dirt fell on Verna's coffin and the mourners turned away to leave, Dix's red-rimmed eyes caught on Francis. The big man glared. *You,* he said. *This is all your fault. Verna wanted to move away, until your fancy speech at the coupling ceremony changed her mind.*

*Hush,* Richard interrupted, trying to draw his friend away. *It wasn't his fault. We all made our own choices.*

*No! It's his fault. He made her want to stay.*

Breaking away from Richard's grasp, Dix strode over to stand in front of Francis. A human news reporter, not understanding the words but evidently noting the hostile intent, turned and headed their way, camera in hand.

*Dix, I could not have made you and Verna stay even if I had intended to,* Francis pointed out calmly. *Making you do anything is not in my power.*

Dix refused to be mollified. *On the Ship, you made us do whatever you wanted. On the Ship --*

Francis cut him off quickly. *We are no longer on the Ship. Your choices are your own now, as are the consequences of those choices.*

*Don't preach at me, Overseer!*

*It is not my intention to preach,* Francis said, keeping his voice quiet and reasonable. *I am merely pointing out the facts.*

Nervously, he tugged his right sleeve down to be sure it covered his tattoo.

Dix grabbed his arm and said viciously, *Don't bother trying to hide it, pal. We all know who and what you are.* He smiled as he twisted Francis' wrist in an uncomfortable direction. *The facts are that my wife is dead, and it's your fault.*

Francis didn't try to pull free. Yes, Dix. In a way, it is my fault. But not in the way you imagine. If I had done something to stop Larry, perhaps --

He dismissed that thought. Private misgivings wouldn't help things now. 

The human reporter watched them intently, but so far hadn't taken any pictures. For both Dix's sake and his own, Francis had to stop this soon. But he wasn't sure how.

Jane stepped forward, placing a hand on Dix's arm.

*Please don't,* she said softly. *Such actions at a time like this show no honor to the dead.*

The big man released his grip, flinging Francis' hand away as if it were contaminated. But he still stood there glaring, despite Jane's effort to draw him away.

*There is something more worthy of consideration than who's to blame,* Jane went on. *Verna was to have taught Sandy of our traditions. Perhaps you have someone you would like to recommend to take her place?*

Jane's attempt at distraction might have worked, if Dix hadn't been staring directly at Francis. *You,* he said through clenched teeth. *You do it, if you dare.* 

*I would be honored, Dix,* Francis replied mildly. *But by our own tradition, a binnaum may not be a teacher of one of the Pillars. Perhaps there is someone else?*

*You're not a binnaum. You're an abomination,* Dix grated through clenched teeth. Francis had to force himself not to flinch.

*But you're right,* the big man conceded at last. His angry gaze raked the little group of newcomers. He pointed vindictively at Gypsy. *She survived, while my wife died. Let her take Verna's place.*

Gypsy's eyes went wide, then she looked down at her lap, saying softly, *I -- I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to stay here in Cartersville or not. I don't know --*

*Well now,* Dix interrupted sarcastically, *you move down here with your brother and buy a big fancy house, which draws the attention of the humans. Then as soon as things go wrong, you're ready to run. Figures.*

Scarlett stepped around the wheelchair in front of Gypsy, hands on hips. *Now, see here, Mason Dixon, if you think you're going to badger this poor woman at a time like this, you've got another think coming.*

As the big woman stopped to take a breath, Gypsy interrupted in her quiet voice, *No, Scarlett. I -- I believe I have made up my mind after all. I'm going to stay. And I will be a teacher to this child.* Then she stopped, glancing hesitantly at Jane and Richard as her confidence evaporated. *That is, if -- if you'll have me.*

Husband and wife looked at each other for a long moment. Then Jane nodded slightly. 

*We would be honored and pleased,* Richard replied.

With a broad smile, Jane went over and hugged Gypsy. Deciding to take advantage of this photogenic moment, the human photographer snapped a few shots of the two survivors of the bomb blast comforting each other.

*So be it then,* Francis announced smoothly. *Gypsy Rose Lee shall teach our traditions to the child, Sandovyn.*

*So let it be,* came the response from the assembled newcomers.

*Fools!* Dix spat as he turned on his heel and strode away.

 

As a direct result of Verna's death, three newcomers moved away and one middle-aged couple decided to have a child. Francis was both pleased and surprised when they asked him to be the catalyst.

John and Rosa Milton were fairly well off, by Cartersville standards. They invited most of the Tenctonese community to the ceremonies, where sour milk flowed like water and the tables almost collapsed from the sheer weight of the delicacies loaded upon them.

 

The morning after the coupling, Francis dragged himself out of bed, feeling much the worse for wear. He dressed quickly and went out to sit in a lounge chair in front of his cottage, waiting for his brain to get back into gear. The early summer heat wasn't too bad, but the humidity was high today and there was no breeze. He was just contemplating the possibility of making himself some iced coffee when Pat came out the front door of the Inn with a glass in her hand and headed his way.

"Morning, boss," she greeted him cheerfully as she set down the glass on the flat arm of his chair. "Figured you might want some of this."

He hardly needed the distinctive smell to know she had brought exactly what he had been thinking about. Although caffeine didn't do much to cure the aftereffects of overindulgence in sour milk, he had to admit that it did taste good.

"You know," she remarked, "it's awful hot today. You'd be much more comfortable in a t-shirt instead of those long-sleeved shirts you insist on wearing." She stopped a moment, studying his profile. "You don't have to hide the tattoo, boss."

"When one of my own people tells me that, I may believe it," he said sourly.

Pat shrugged. Undaunted, she pulled up a metal lawn chair and sat down. "So how'd the coupling go?"

"Fine. Just fine. Why?"

"Oh, just wondered. I know you were pretty nervous last time, with Jane --"

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Well, what with someone tossing a grenade into the room and all, can you blame me?"

"You were nervous before the grenade."

"True," he admitted. "But I think I'm getting used to it now." He grinned smugly. "Guess I'd better, considering that the Redfords prepositioned me last night also."

"That's 'propositioned', boss." She shook her head. "You're getting more action than I am these days."

"Pat --"

She held up a hand. "Yeah, I know. Don't say it. Serves me right for falling for a married woman, doesn't it?" She shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get over Jane -- someday."

Seeing the pain on her face, Francis didn't pursue the subject.

Pat recovered her composure quickly. "Speaking of Jane, she called me about an hour ago to tell me about the ceremony." Being neither Tenctonese nor a friend of the Miltons, Pat hadn't been invited this time. "She said you seemed a little upset when you left, after Mr. Milton talked to you. Anything wrong?"

Damn! Jane would have to notice that.

"Oh, it was nothing important. They wanted to give me some money as a gift, that's all. Of course, I refused."

"Well, perhaps since they figured they hadn't had to go all the way to the nearest branch of the Order in New York, it was worth it to --"

"That's not the point!" he interrupted her angrily. "Binnaums aren't supposed to get paid. That's -- well, that's a human perversion."

Oh, is it now? whispered an ironic voice in his mind. Francis squirmed.

Pat looked interested. "You mean you folks never had anything like prostitution? Must be nice."

"Uh -- well." Francis cleared his throat and started over. "Not on Tencton, no. Or at least so I was taught. On earth, though, some of us discovered -- uh -- ways of making money by selling – I mean --" 

Unable to meet her eyes any longer, he looked away, mumbling, "Oh, damn."

"Boss, is something wrong? I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I was only curious."

He shook his head, fighting down the sick feeling in his stomach. Did he dare to tell her? The humans always claimed it helped to confide in someone, if something was bothering you. He wasn't so sure. And yet, Pat was his friend. She wouldn't turn against him if he told her about his past. He could never say this to a newcomer, but perhaps a human might understand?

"For a while, after we landed on earth, I was -- " What word can I use? "— affiliated -- with someone -- " Piedra Frelani "-- who sold my services to people -- " Mostly Overseers " -- who didn't want to bother with the ethics and ceremonies of the Order. I made money --" A lot of money "-- that way."

"Oh. Okay. I see."

"No, I don't think you do. it isn't quite the same as for humans. A binnaum is -- special. Sacred."

"All people are special, boss."

"Yes, of course. But I'm supposed to be --" He shrugged, at a loss for the proper way to make it clear to her. "By surrounding the act of procreation with ceremony, we give it a meaning beyond the merely biological. I realized that at the Wagners' coupling ceremony, when I did it the way it was supposed to be done for the first time in my life. A binnaum is a symbol, not just an individual. I have dragged a sacred trust through filth. Dix was right to name me an abomination," he finished bitterly.

A large silver-gray car drove down the road toward the Inn, the smooth purr of its motor interrupting the quiet of the morning. Pat glanced at it once, then returned her attention to Francis, reaching across the distance that separated them to lay a hand on his arm. "Boss, you must have had some reason. You needed money --" she suggested.

"Not that much money!! And not that badly! And not that kind of money. The people I was affiliated with were Overseers, Pat. The money came from lots of illegal things: the drug trade, prostitution of Tenctonese women, gambling on things that make your culture's dogfights look like fun, and probably worse things that I don't even know about." Clenching his fists against the sides of his head, he crouched forward until his elbows touched his knees. "I was a whore," he whispered. "A whore in the pay of some pretty disgusting people."

"Did you have a reason?"

"Greed."

"Only that, boss?"

"Fear," he admitted. "Fear of what they'd do if I tried to get out."

"But you did get out?"

He nodded, still hunched over on himself. 

But don't ask about how and why I got out. I couldn't bear to tell you. I can't tell anyone about that.

Mercifully, the buzzer on the portable phone at Pat's belt went off before she could say anything more. There was someone at the Front Desk who wanted her. She got up and took a few steps towards the Inn, then turned suddenly to face him.

"Boss, you're not the only one who's sold himself for money. I did it once. I know how it feels."

Considerably astonished, Francis took a deep breath and lowered his hands until he could take hold of the arms of the chair. He raised his head, watching Pat walk away across the lawn and asking himself if he did indeed feel better for having confided some of the reason for his guilt to her.

Yes, there was a certain amount of lightness in one of the dark corners of his mind. She hadn't turned on him or accused him of being a monster. She had even seemed to understand, a little. Or maybe more than a little, considering her parting comment.

Now if he could only tell her the rest of it. About the ship, and Piedra, and how nice it could be to have the sort of power he'd had. Why, even here on earth, he'd never lacked for money and the power money could buy, as long as he hadn't been too particular about what he did to earn that money. Now that he was trying to do the right thing, it was all he could do to keep the bills paid. 

Something must be badly out of balance in the human economy if vice was rewarded while virtue went hungry.

He shook his head. No use blaming the humans. Any way you looked at it, power was power, and power constantly tried to maintain and expand itself. But he'd never be able to tell Pat about the Ship, or about how he'd finally been persuaded to run away from Piedra. She wouldn't understand. No one would.

Getting up from the chair, he prepared to locate Willy and see about getting the lawn mowed. It was about time some of those bushes were pruned also. Maybe a bit of physical work would help steady his nerves.

He hadn't gotten much further than the tool shed when Willy suddenly appeared, an agitated expression on his face.

"The boss lady wants you at the desk," he said nervously. "She says it's important." Glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the main building, Willy added, "Larry Hatfrey's here. Says he wants to talk to you both."

Hatfrey? At the Front Desk? What could he want?

"I'll be workin' in the garden by the door, boss," Willy said tentatively. "In case there's any trouble. You know."

But Francis was already out of the toolshed and on his way to the Inn. The fancy gray Cadillac parked out front had a seagull painted on the door, with the name of the real estate agency in elaborate calligraphy beneath it.

Francis scowled at the car as he went through the door. He was still frowning when he followed the voices to the rec room and found Larry Hatfrey, impeccably and expensively dressed as always, sitting in one of the chairs. Held deftly between two manicured fingers, a cigarette emitted a spiraling coil of smoke, fouling the room's atmosphere.

The human rose to his feet, smiling. Much to his own annoyance, Francis could detect nothing phony or insincere in the other man's cheerful expression. He knew full well this was the local Klan leader, but there was no hard evidence that could be used against the man, even if Francis had dared to try to get the law to prosecute him.

"Ah, Mr. Bernardone," Larry said, extending the hand without the cigarette. "I was just complimenting your partner on the appearance of the Inn. Hard to believe it was a broken down ruin only a year ago."

Francis shook hands reluctantly. "To what do we owe this visit?" he asked, trying to sound at least marginally polite.

"Why, I've come to do you a favor. I know of someone who'd like to buy this place. I have a client who has authorized me to offer you nearly double what you paid for it." His smile spread even wider, if that was possible. "I'm sure you'll agree that's a very generous offer. A nice profit for both you and Ms. Fisher."

Double their money? Francis hadn't expected that much.

"That certainly is a tempting offer, Mr. Hatfrey," he replied slowly. "Tell me, why is this client of yours so interested in our humble motel?"

Larry's grin lost a little of its shine and he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sure I don't know. After all, a real estate agent's business is to sell property, not inquire into his client's plans."

"Uh-huh," Francis said sourly. "Isn't your real motive to get our property to use as part of your resort?"

The human looked distinctly uncomfortable now. "I'm afraid I really don't know what you're talking about. I don't own a resort."

The memory of what had been left of Verna's mangled body as it lay in its coffin flashed through Francis' mind. And Jane's bandaged head, Gypsy's leg --

The murderous rage he had barely been able to suppress after the bombing began to rise to the surface. He took a step toward Larry. "You and your friends couldn't scare us off, so you're going to try to buy us off. Right?"

Larry drew back from the menace in the newcomers voice. "I take it you decline my offer, then?"

"You're damn right we decline! I wouldn't sell out to you, you miserable son-of-a --"

Pat's hand on his arm held him back, as she said softly in Tenctonese, *Remember the ocean?*

Francis turned away, trying to rein in his rage. Larry used the moment to address himself to Pat.

"I don't believe your – partner -- consulted you before refusing my offer, Ms. Fisher. Perhaps you feel differently about it?" he asked, voice silken.

"Sorry, but our refusal stands." She smiled her dazzling smile. "Money can't buy everything, Mr. Hatfrey."

"That has not been my experience, Ms. Fisher. Everything in this world has a price." His voice had grown harder.

The cynical remark grated across Francis' hearts. He longed to be able to make a self-righteous denial, but couldn't.

"Perhaps you have a price, sir," Pat went on smoothly. "We don't. The Atlantic Inn is not for sale."

Larry drew himself up to his full height and snorted. "Very well. I tried to do it the nice way, but you wouldn't listen. The day will come when you'll wish you had taken me up on this offer."

"If we're making predictions," Francis said carefully, "I'll make one of my own. The day will come when you'll wish you had never seen a burning cross, much less planted one on our lawn."

"Fools!" Larry said bitterly, as he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

 

Yellow fire bloomed in the darkness. As it fell to earth, a series of white flashes exploded haphazardly among the fading sparks. Sharp cracks of sound reverberated along the river.

Reclining on a lawn chair, Francis watched the rapt expressions on the faces of the humans as the latest burst of Fourth of July fireworks slipped down the sky. The fireworks were being set off from the bridge at Cartersville, courtesy of Seagull Realty. Although the bridge was several miles downriver, the view was excellent.

As a series of red and blue streamers burst outward into a sparkling ball, Francis reflected with satisfaction on the irony of Larry's money providing entertainment for his guests. 

The portable phone clipped to his belt beeped out its electronic tone. Absently, he pressed the button and lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Mr. Bernardone?"

"Yes?"

"This is Willy. Jo will be coming to pay you a visit later on tonight, and she'll be bringin' her own kind of fireworks. She'll come through the woods, where the road on Larry's property loops around by the saltmarsh."

"Willy? How do you --" But Francis found himself talking only to a dial tone.

*#Andarko,* he whispered softly as he turned off the phone. Repeated explosions from the fireworks continued to echo through the early evening, but they conjured up a vision far different from the colorful blossoms of light he was watching in the sky. Francis stared at their reflection on the river and considered what to do about this latest development.

Could he trust Willy? Maybe the warning was only a lie, an attempt by the Klan to make him call the police for what would turn out to be an embarrassing false alarm.

An expensive false alarm. With the Inn booked to capacity for the holiday weekend, such a thing would be bad publicity. They couldn't afford to have their guests scared away.

But what if it was for real?

Pat came over and lowered herself into a lawn chair beside him, a glass of lemonade in her hand. "How'd you like the grand finale? Pretty spectacular, wasn't it?"

When he didn't reply, she shrugged and continued, "What was the phone call about? Anything important?"

"No. Just a question about availability next weekend."

"Oh. Well, I hope they call back. We need the business."

When he didn't answer, Pat went back to mingling with the guests.

Francis didn't spend much time wondering what to do. The fireworks had ended, so most of the guests were trickling back to their rooms. A few remained in lounge chairs, sipping drinks or conversing quietly. Pat sat with one of their rare newcomer guests, probably taking the opportunity to practice her Tenctonese.

He strolled casually over to the rec room and ducked inside. Leaning over the Desk, he took Pat's revolver from its drawer, checked that it was loaded and the safety was on, and slipped it into his pocket. This done, he went back out to the lawn and caught Pat's eye. Excusing herself, the black woman headed his way, trading pleasantries with an elderly couple as she passed.  
"What's up, boss?" she asked once she was close enough that no one else could hear.

"Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to let you know that I'll be out patrolling the grounds again tonight."

She arched one eyebrow. "You expecting trouble?"

"Not really, but it is a holiday and with all the excitement in town -- well, you know. Anything can happen when people start drinking and partying. I just want to be sure our guests aren't disturbed."

"You sure that's all? You look kind of spooked."

He shrugged and tried to look less spooked. "All that noise from the explosions kind of set my nerves on edge."

"Explosions? You mean the fireworks going off? Surely that's not enough to bother anyone."

"It is if you've got Tenctonese ears," he replied, grimacing dramatically.

Pat chuckled. "Yeah, I see your point. Okay, I'll expect you to be roaming around. Watch out for any stray firecrackers, boss."

I wish it were only firecrackers I'm worried about, Francis thought as he strode toward the shadowed woods.

 

Three hours later, he was still walking along the southern border of their property, concentrating on the area where Willy had claimed Jo would come from. It was a simple matter to watch the road on Larry's property from under the shelter of the trees on his side of the boundary, as most of the trees had been cut down on Larry's side. The light from a half moon illuminated the landscape, but dark shadows pooled beneath the trees. Francis could see well in the shadows, but a human wouldn't be able to do so. He only hoped Willy had been right about Jo's plans. If she were even now approaching the Inn from the opposite direction, he'd have a true disaster on his hands.

For the thousandth time he wondered if he could trust Willy's tip. Maybe the man had been lying. Maybe Larry suspected his loyalty and he'd been fed the wrong info deliberately. Maybe it would have been a good idea to call the police.

And maybe that was the distant hum of a car engine off on Route 50.

Swiveling his head, Francis listened intently as the noise changed timbre and direction, turning off the highway and coming towards him. Before long, a sleek sports car appeared on the road, slowing to a stop at a point almost directly opposite Francis' hiding place.

The door opened, momentarily creating a bright splash of light. A slender figure clad in black got out and then leaned back into the car, emerging with a package. That had to be Jo.

She closed the car door. In the renewed darkness, Francis watched her pick her way across the swampy field towards the trees to her left. He circled quietly around in that direction, keeping track of her with eyes and ears. She crossed the property line, heading unerringly for one of the Inn's walking trails. Francis let her reach the trail, then stationed himself in the bushes alongside a sharp bend, just before the trail turned out into open ground and up onto the low boardwalk that took hikers over and across a three-acre stretch of soggy swamp.

Jo came into sight, moving with surprising lack of noise for a human in the dark. Francis let her come up even with him before he spoke.

"I think it's about time we had a little talk, Captain Sanzari."

She swiveled to face him, dropping into a crouch.

"I wouldn't try anything if I were you. I have a gun," he warned, stepping out onto the trail.

She froze. Seeing who he was, she began to curse luridly.

"That wasn't quite the sort of talk I had in mind," Francis cut in. "I hoped you might tell me something about that package you're carrying, and who put you up to all this."

Her face changed, going from anger to wariness. "No one had to put me up to it, slag. It's my own idea. Someone's got to get rid of you bastards before you contaminate our country with your alien ideas --" She raked him with a contemptuous glance -- "Not to mention your alien bodies."

"Standard Purist cant, Ms. Sanzari. Surely a person as intelligent as yourself can see beyond that."

Her lip curled. "All I can see is slag scum undermining our culture. No one asked you to move down south. You should have stayed in California, with all the rest of the liberal, unpatriotic assholes. We don't want you here."

"Sanzari," Francis said thoughtfully. "Isn't that an Italian name? I don't seem to recall reading about any Italians on the Mayflower. Didn't most of them come to America much later on?"

"I know what you're saying, spongehead. But at least we're humans, not some other sort of creature. Even the niggers have more right to this planet than you do."

Well, that attempt at appealing to her reason didn't work so well. Time to try another tack. He'd been able to get Murray out of the Klan by showing it was still anti-Semitic. What might work on this human woman? Perhaps if he could find out more about her, that would give him a clue.

"Captain Sanzari, you are a Marine, are you not?"

"Yeah, slag. What's it to you?"

"Oh, I just wondered. I understand there's now a program at the base in Willemton to train the first women fighter pilots, but I don't suppose you're part of that," he said innocently. "It must take an exceptional woman to qualify."

She threw her head back and glared at him proudly, her package still clutched to her side. "You bet I'm in it. I've been teaching new recruits to fly for years. Now it's gonna be my turn to get some of the glory."

"It must have been hard, for a woman."

She shrugged. "I've had my problems. You just gotta be better than anyone else, that's all. And things got better for women in the military after the Gulf War back in 91. We showed we could do it. Despite some civilian complaining and some resistance from the old guard, women are getting into combat positions now. It won't be long before everything will be open to us."

An image popped into Francis' mind, a Marine Corps recruiting poster he had seen once. Three people stood at stiff attention, in elaborate dress uniforms: a white male, a black male, and a white woman. The caption read, "The Few, the Proud." Jo would have looked right at home on that poster.

Then it struck him. This was what the humans called the Warrior Archetype. She was one of those proud few who risked their lives to defend truth and right and freedom, not one of the easy-living civilians who sat back and took things for granted. She was one of the strong ones who stood on the front lines in the battle against evil. She was capable, confident, not afraid to act for her cause.

He reflected uncomfortably that many of the Overseers saw themselves in much the same way. For a while, he had felt that way himself.

He looked at Jo, standing straight and proud, sure of her own cause, lethal package of akondiit held casually and without fear.

Yes, this was the Warrior all right. But while the Warrior is capable of sacrificing much and doing much good, it is also the archetype most capable of desecration, because of its vast potential for destruction. It could be bad enough serving a just cause, but in the service of evil --

Francis reminded himself he'd best tread very lightly indeed with this one.

"I suppose that little gift box under your arm was meant for the Inn?" he asked.

Jo smiled. "Close, but no cigar, slag. This one was meant for you personally. Too many humans around to risk blowing the main building right now." She sneered slightly. "Although for my money, any human who'd patronize a slag business deserves what they get."

"Oh? Then you'd prefer to attack the Inn, but someone else told you not to?"

"Won't work, pal," she replied. "I told you, I'm in this on my own. There is no 'someone else'."

Forget about tricking her into incriminating Larry. That obviously wasn't going to work.

"Did you get the akondiit from the military?" Francis asked, stalling for time until he could think of his next move. If worse came to worst, he'd simply turn her in to the police, but he'd rather settle this some other way. "I didn't think humans dared use the stuff."

"Some humans do. But I'm not saying where I got it. I'm not about to tell you anything at all, slag, so let's get on with this. What are you going to do with me? I warn you, I have no intention of letting you turn me in. I'll die first." 

She sounded as if she meant it, too.

"You won't have that choice, Captain. If you try to run away, I don't have to shoot you to stop you. I can easily run you down and overpower you. We slags are strong, remember?"

"I've got other ways, spongehead. And I won't hesitate to take you with me if I go."

She had to mean the bomb. Perhaps the timer was already running? No, that would have been too risky. She was delivering this one herself, so she wouldn't connect it until she was sure it was in place and then she'd no doubt set it to go off quickly.

But he knew akondiit and he knew it was touchy stuff. It would take only a few seconds to set it off immediately, if she wanted to.

Francis debated taking the bomb away from her, but decided to risk letting her keep it for now. Overconfident, she might let something slip. He was sure he could get it away from her quickly, if he had to.

She didn't fear death, then. He couldn't get to her that way. But what did she fear? What was worse than death, to a Warrior? The answer to that was simple.

"Captain, if you force me to turn you over to the police, I certainly shall. How would the headlines look, do you imagine? One of the chosen few women in the training program, a common murderer? What would your commanding officer think about that sort of publicity? How would your fellow officers regard you then?"

For the first time, uncertainty showed in her expression. "I told you, slag, I won't let it come to that."

"Ah, but are you sure you can make that stick?"

"What do you want from me? Why haven't you turned me in already, or just killed me?"

"I was hoping for a confession, Jo. I was hoping to learn more about the Klan from you. I even thought I might be able to convince you to drop out of the Klan, and make a solemn vow never to harm newcomers again. Then perhaps the police need never know what happened here tonight."

"What makes you think my promise would stop me?"

"You're a person with a sense of honor. I believe you would not break such a vow, once it was made." 

He knew he could be way out on a limb here, but the one thing a true Warrior valued was honor. It was just possible he might get to her this way.

For a moment, it seemed as if she might agree. Then she straightened her shoulders and glared at him defiantly. "No deal, slag. Not with the likes of you."

Francis tightened his grip on the revolver in his hand, sensing she might be about to make a break for it. Suddenly, from the bushes at the side of the path a bright light flashed on, dazzling his eyes.

"I reckon this has gone about far enough. Drop the gun, slag."

The light temporarily blinded Francis' night-adapted eyes, but he recognized Willy's voice. He'd been betrayed after all. He held on to the gun, considering the possibility of getting the traitor before Willy could kill him.

"I said to drop it, slag," Willy repeated, voice hard. "I got me a heavy-duty hunting rifle aimed right at you, and I sho' nuff know how to use it."

Francis flung the revolver far into the tangled foliage in the opposite direction from Willy's voice, hoping to keep Jo from finding it.

Willy stepped out from the bushes, rifle trained unwaveringly on Francis. The flashlight must have been propped in a tree, as the light didn't move. Jo took a step towards the shadows where Francis had tossed his gun, but Willy stopped her by saying, "Don't bother. You got more important things to do tonight than search for that little toy."

She grinned and patted the box under her arm. "Damn right I do. You sure showed up at the right time, Willy-boy. Guess the Lord's looking out for me tonight."

"The Lord ain't got nothin' to do with it. I set it up by warning the slag that you was comin'. Figured if I got the drop on him this way, we could make real sure he was in bed when you blew his cabin to hell."

"That wasn't necessary. I'd have got him."

"Don't hurt none to be sure." He jerked his chin in Francis' direction. "This here's one tricky mother. He mighta been out watchin' anyway. Now we know exactly where he's at, don't we?"

"Yeah, guess we do at that," Jo conceded.

"Ole Larry will be mighty pleased with us over this, won't he?"

"Hey, go easy on the names!" Jo cautioned.

"What difference do it make? The slag here ain't gonna live to tell nobody about Hatfrey anyway."

"Well, yeah, you got a point. Kinda funny, isn't it, slag? You buying this property from our Exalted Cyclopes, after the way we whipped you and all? And you being too dumb to even realize it. You guys are supposed to be pretty smart, but I guess good solid American brains got you beat twice over."

"It would appear to be the case," Francis replied, letting his shoulders sag in defeat. An enemy who underestimates you can make an excellent ally.

"All right, let's get on with it," Willy ordered. "Head on down along the trail, slag."

Francis obeyed without comment. The trees opened out on marshland, the trail starting onto the series of wooden walkways that spanned the creeks and swampy ground.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked, attempting to sound unconcerned while he weighed several possible courses of action.

Jo chuckled. "I reckon we'll follow the original plan, but we'll have to make sure you're gagged and tied up nice and comfy in your bed when I set off my bomb. That way, you'll have a bit of time to consider what's going to happen and say your prayers. Assuming, of course, that you people have any kind of prayers to say."

"We do." Francis stopped abruptly on the walkway, just this side of the first small creek. "However, I believe I'll say my prayers right here, if you don't mind. I have no intention of making it easy for you by transporting myself back to my cottage. Since I'm dead in any case, you're going to have to kill me right here."

Jo strode over to stand face to face with him. "That can be easily arranged, slag. No one will be able to tell from the leftover pieces that you were shot before you were blown up."

Francis refused to budge, gambling on his ability to get the rifle away from Willy before the black man could steel himself to shoot. If it had been Jo with the gun, he'd never have risked it.

"Okay, pal. If that's the way you want it." Keeping her eyes on Francis, she ordered Willy harshly, "Blow him away. We're far enough from the Inn that no one'll notice."

When Willy didn't fire immediately, Jo continued scornfully, "Give me the gun if you can't do it, Willy-boy. I got no problem with killing slags."

Francis was about to make a move when he saw the rifle barrel slide sideways and come to rest pointing at Jo. "You got one problem with killin' this slag, girl," the black man said. "I ain't gonna let you do it."

Jo turned to face Willy, halting abruptly when she saw the gun trained on her chest. "Willy, what in God's name do you think you're --"

"I know real well what I'm doin', Jo. I got a tape recorder in my pocket and I recorded everything we just said. I plan to turn it over to the police, along with you and that bomb."

"You'll -- you'll be convicted also," Jo said. "Remember that bomb you planted at the doctor's house."

Willy's voice turned even harder. "You made a murderer out of me. I'll go to prison, but I'll damn well take your ass with me. You know that pretty picture Francis painted for you a while ago, about bein' disgraced in the eyes of your fellow officers? Well, you ain't even seen disgrace yet. I'll make sure they know all about what you been doin' in the Klan. The police might want to look the other way, but do you think the Marine Corps will?"

Jo laughed. "Willy-boy, you just made up my mind for me. I think you talk big, but won't follow through when the chips are down. Well, the chips are down now. Either you kill me here where I stand, or I'm heading for the Inn. I can have this bomb ready to go in seconds. And this time I'm not messin' with just the slag's cottage. I'm taking out the main building, even if I die doing it." She stared down the rifle barrel directly into Willy's eyes. "So go for it, nigger. Kill me now, or stand aside."

Hoping Willy wouldn't open fire, Francis lunged toward the woman. She side-stepped with considerable speed, grabbing his shoulder and propelling him over one outstretched leg and out over the edge of the walkway. He landed on the marshy ground, his full weight coming down on his bad shoulder. Where the mud splashed his face, it burned sharply. Panic-stricken, he floundered through the mud and clambered back up onto the boardwalk.

When he could think straight again, he saw that Jo had crossed the creek on the walk and then leapt down into the swamp, where she could run a direct line to the other side without following the meandering boardwalk. Francis couldn't follow her through that, and he doubted he had the speed to cover the much longer way on the walk in time. There was only one choice left.

Willy still stood holding the rifle, aiming it after Jo's running figure. Francis headed toward him, intending to take the weapon and shoot Jo, since he doubted the black man would have the nerve to do it. He hoped to bring her down alive, but wasn't sure his marksmanship was that good. No matter, he'd have to chance it. If she reached the Inn with that bomb --

Before Francis could grab the gun, Willy fired. Far out in the marsh, Jo went down, either hit or hiding.

"I got her, man," Willy said, his breath coming in short gasps. "I don't know if I killed her, but I got her."

Francis put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Okay, Willy. Stay calm now and wait here a minute. Keep your eye on the place she went down. I'll get my revolver, then we'll both go over and try to find her."

Willy nodded his understanding. Francis sprinted back along the walk, quickly finding the gun where he had tossed it into the bushes. He had just about gotten back to Willy when all hell broke loose.

The roar of an explosion destroyed the quiet of the night. Francis dove forward and shoved Willy down a split second before the shock wave hit them, trying to cover the more vulnerable human with his own body. Muddy water, tree branches, bits of bushes and other assorted debris rained down on them. With his arms protecting his head, most of the diluted saltwater didn't penetrate Francis' clothing, although he could feel a stinging burn in several places along his back.

When things had stopped falling and the echoes of the blast died away down the river, the two dazed men staggered to their feet.

"Come on," Francis said. "We'd better see if we can find Jo. She could have set that thing off and then run."

They started down the boardwalk at an unsteady trot, ears ringing and eyes still dazzled. 

Willy shook his head. "I shot her, man. She ain't goin' too far, if she went anywhere," he said.

Fortunately, they were able to reach the area of the blast without wading through the swamp itself. Walking gingerly on the soggy ground, Francis surveyed the ruined trees and bushes. A few patches of grass were smoldering, but with the dampness of the marsh, they were unlikely to catch fire. 

Bits of Jo's body were scattered around the area, the biggest being what must have been her torso but now resembled something from a butcher shop.

"Guess this makes me a murderer again, don't it?" Willy said dully, glancing from the mangled corpse to the rifle dangling from his hand.

"Willy, I don't think anyone will be going to prison for shooting Captain Sanzari. I doubt very much that the police will find enough of her intact to reveal a bullet wound."

"But you know what went on --"

Francis took hold of the human's shoulders, turning him away from the body. "I know a lot of things that I've never told to the police, Willy. This will just be one more of those things. Understand?"

The black man nodded numbly. Then he turned his anguished eyes on the newcomer. "I'm gettin' out of the Klan, boss. I don't care if it means losing the money I been gettin' from Hatfrey." He smiled grimly and wiped some mud from his face. "You know what they always say about the bottom line? Well, sometimes it just don't begin with a dollar sign."

Francis considered that. He couldn't have phrased it better himself. "You've still got a job at the Inn."

"You mean that? After all I done?"

Francis nodded. "Go on now. Disappear. Pat's probably already called the police, so I better head back and play dumb."

Willy still hesitated, glancing toward Jo's remains. "We're not gonna get away with this."

"Yes, we are. If I run into anyone on the way back, I'll just say I heard the explosion and went to investigate. This is all I found. Someone must have come to destroy the Inn and accidentally set off their own bomb. After what happened to Dr. Lee, the police won't be surprised. Now get out of here while you've still got a chance."

"We could tell the cops the truth, that we were tryin' to stop her from killin' other people --"

"A slag and a nigger in a court of law, with a white woman dead?" Francis pointed out.

Willy had to listen. Francis didn't want the sort of publicity he'd get in that kind of situation. He couldn't afford anything that might bring him to the attention of the law, or worse, of those he feared even more than the law.

"Yeah, I get your point," Willy finally agreed. "Okay, I'm outta here."

As the black man faded off into the woods, Francis started running towards the Inn. Already he could hear sirens in the distance. Putting on an extra burst of speed, he covered the ground at a rate only possible for a newcomer.

He had almost reached the edge of the lawn when he encountered the police headed in the opposite direction. Feigning exhaustion and a prudent amount of fear, he gasped out something barely coherent about a body and a lot of destruction, pointing back the way he had come. Francis leaned against a tree trunk, making a great show of trying to catch his breath and looking as if he was about to collapse.

With a hasty admonishment to Francis to get to the Inn and wait for them there, the officer in charge led his small force down along the trail at a run. As soon as they were out of sight, Francis' health improved immensely. Cutting sideways through the woods, he came out of the trees near the south wing of the building.

Guests flooded the lawn, milling around and talking excitedly to each other. He could make out Pat's voice not far away, attempting to calm a frightened family. Staying in the shadows, Francis was able to take advantage of the confusion and get around to the back of the Inn unseen. Using his passkey, he let himself into the back door of the rec room, crossing the darkened room quietly and peering into the lighted room beyond.

As he had hoped, with all the excitement outside, the office area was deserted. He circled around behind the Front Desk, quickly sliding Pat's handgun out of his pocket and back into its usual hiding place. Then he hurried through the rec room and out the back door, letting it lock behind him.

Hesitating only long enough to breathe a sigh of relief, he retraced his steps back to the woods, then staggered out onto the lawn not far from where he had originally encountered the police.

"Francis!" Pat shouted the moment he reached the area illuminated by the floodlights in front of the building. "Thank goodness! Where have you been?"

"I'll tell you -- in a minute," he gasped, remembering he was supposed to be exhausted and out of breath. "Got to -- sit down."

After that, it was easy enough to convince everyone that he had heard the explosion and run out into the forest to investigate, then hurried back to summon help when he realized someone had been killed. The police didn't seem at all suspicious, asking him only the routine questions that would normally be asked of someone in his situation.

Francis dreaded the publicity that was bound to follow all this, but it was far better than the publicity that would have come if Jo's bombing attempt had killed or injured any of the guests. When a reporter showed up and asked him if he wasn't worried about future attempts, he tried to pass it off casually.

"If all our would-be bombers are as inept as this one, what's there to worry about?" he said with an attempt at sincerity that he hoped would fool the reporter.

When the police had left and things had calmed down, he and Pat were able to persuade the guests to return to their rooms. One family insisted on checking out, but everyone else stayed.

Pat sank gratefully down into her chair behind the Front Desk, rubbing her forehead with one hand and shaking her head. "That was close," she finally said, voice soft.

You don't know the half of it, Francis thought, but all he trusted himself to say was, "Yes."

Leaning over, she slid open a drawer behind the desk, then slid it closed again.

Uh-oh!

With a speculative look in her eye, Pat said, "That's strange. I tried to get my gun earlier, while I was dialing the police, but it wasn't there."

"Perhaps you looked in the wrong drawer," he suggested. "If you were as scared by that explosion as I was, it wouldn't be surprising."

She took a deep breath, letting it out noisily in what might have been a snort. "Nothing happened out there in the woods other than what you told the police?"

Hating the necessity of lying to his friend, Francis still couldn't risk telling her the truth. The less people who know a secret, the less likely that secret is to ever see the light. That was as true for humans as it was for Tenctonese.

He tried to look innocent, hoping she would abandon this line of inquiry. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I thought perhaps that bomb didn't just accidentally go off."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Pat laughed, laying a hand on his arm. "You really should practice looking innocent, boss. You don't do it very well."

Francis fixed her with a blank stare, hoping she would drop the subject before he got himself in any deeper.

*All right,* Pat said in Tenctonese. *If you're determined to be as close-mouthed as a giant Aldebaran ham, I'll stop questioning you.*

*Uh -- I think you mean Aldebaran clam, Pat.*

Giving up at last, she just smiled and replied, “Whatever.”


	4. To Be a Man

TO BE A MAN

 

Francis froze, the edge of the sheet he had just laid out on the bed still clutched in his hand.

"Did you hear something, Pat?" he asked, before remembering she had only her insensitive human ears to rely on.

The black woman shook her head, then stood listening intently, as she watched Francis from across the motel room they were making up.

The last of the daylight was fading quickly outside the second-story window, hastened on its journey by the low-hanging clouds that had covered the sun all day long. The Day of Descent had just passed and the day after tomorrow would be the human festival of Thanksgiving. Trees rustled in the stiff breeze, masking most of the other outdoor noises, but if Francis concentrated, he could make out the sound of small waves lapping against the seawall along the riverfront behind the Atlantic Inn. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The old building creaked now and then. There was no trace of the noise that had alarmed him.

Finally, he relaxed. "Guess it was just a car passing by out on Route 50. Sure sounded as if it had turned down our road and then stopped, though."

"Maybe a guest?" Pat suggested hopefully. Although the Inn was booked almost full for the upcoming holiday weekend by a Senior Citizens' bus tour, all the rooms were empty tonight.

"No such luck. I'd have heard the tires on the gravel driveway at the front door." He shrugged. "It must have been out on the highway, not on our road at all. The wind could have made it sound closer."

"Yeah. The wind can sure play tricks on you. It gives me the creeps sometimes when I'm here all alone in an empty building, especially after some of those threatening phone calls. They're getting weirder all the time. Imagine saying you and I are screwing around! That's a laugh! I haven't been with a man since I was a teenager, and besides, I'm not sure we could, even if we wanted to."

Francis wasn't really listening to her words, but he gave a polite laugh anyway. Concentrating on the noises from outside, he straightened the sheet on the bed and began tucking in the corners. He should have been paying closer attention all along. They'd had more than their share of trouble in the past. Just because no one had bothered them ever since Jo Sanzari had died in her abortive attempt to blow up the Inn last July, that was no reason to think the Klan had given up. Other newcomers had had crosses burned on their lawns and shots fired through their windows in recent months, so it wasn't over yet.

Francis wasn't enough of an optimist to believe Larry Hatfrey would cancel his plans to build Schooners Landing because of a little thing like a death, but the unwelcome publicity over the attempted bombing had had an unexpected outcome. Local environmentalists had gotten together to oppose Larry's activities, writing letters to the newspaper and to county officials about how Seagull Realty was illegally draining and clearing wetlands when they hadn't yet received a permit to build. If the controversy hadn't done the Inn much good, it had been even worse for Larry. The realtor hadn't wanted his plans for the time-sharing resort made public until he had all his permits, in order to avoid exactly what was now happening.

Although the campaign itself had been largely Francis' idea, Pat was the official head of the Committee to Sink Schooners Landing, while he had done his best to keep a low profile. Nevertheless, several reporters had mentioned him in their coverage of the bombing and subsequent events. He fervently hoped none of those stories had found their way into the wrong hands.

It had become all too clear that there was no way he would be able to entirely avoid public involvement in the environmental struggle. Larry's building permit would come up for approval by the Coastal Management Committee sometime in January, and Pat's group had plans for a demonstration in front of Town Hall next month. The Coastal Green Society based in Eddington would be sending a contingent to take part in it. And that was only the first of a series of protests.

In short, things threatened to heat up very soon and Francis was worried.

Pat went back to work dusting the dresser, humming cheerfully. He knew that pretty soon she'd be ready to turn on the vacuum cleaner, so he tried to hurry and finish the bed in order to get out of the room before his ears could be subjected to that unpleasant racket.

*Why are you so cheerful?* he griped to the black woman, keeping his Tenctonese simple. Her grasp of the language was improving steadily, but she was far from fluent. As was often the case with humans, she could understand it better than she could speak it. *We've only made up twenty rooms so far, and there are three more left on this floor, then fourteen downstairs.*

Finished dusting, Pat began emptying the trash baskets. *Not all tonight must be done. Another day have we before the holiday,* she replied, with less hesitation than usual. She went back to humming the same tune.

"Hmph," was all Francis had to say to that. As far as he was concerned, cleaning rooms wasn't hard work, but it sure was boring. If two of their housekeepers hadn't quit in September to return to college, he and Pat wouldn't have had to do this all through the fall season. And if their best housekeeper hadn't gone home sick with the flu today, they wouldn't be so far behind that they had to work so late. And if they hadn't had that group of scuba divers in on Monday night, more of these rooms would be already made up. And if he hadn't been tied up for the last two evenings at the coupling ceremony for Fargo and Ginny Wells, Pat wouldn't have had to carry the brunt of the work here at the Inn by herself.

Francis shook his head ruefully. It seemed to be an unwritten law in the motel business that everything always happened at once. This week had been no exception.

Despite these minor inconveniences, he had to admit that things were going well overall. The Inn would close down for the season right after this weekend. Business had been as good as could be expected for their first year. Many of the local Tenctonese were warming up to him, as evidenced by the Wells' asking him to catalyze a child the other night.

And Pat -- well, his friendship with the black woman had deepened to the point where he almost felt as if there might be at least one person in the world he could really trust.

*Not to complain, boss,* Pat said brightly, interrupting his musings and bringing his attention back to the job at hand. *Always we don't have to perform this trick.*

*Task,* he corrected absently. *We don't have to perform this task all the time.*

She repeated the sentence correctly, pronouncing the Tenctonese "#" sound rather less awkwardly than most humans. As she dumped the contents of the wastebaskets into the large trash bag out in the hall, she began singing the words of the tune she had been humming softly under her breath.

The bed made at last, Francis straightened up and rotated his shoulder, trying to work out the ache from his old gunshot wound. Although he could hear the words to Pat's song perfectly well, they didn't seem to make much sense. "Who is this amazing person named Grace?" he queried.

"Not who, boss, what. It's a theological term, not a name." She launched into an enthusiastic rendition of the song at normal volume:

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.  
I once was lost, but now I'm found; Was blind, but now I see."

He shook his head. "I still don't get it."

"Grace is sort of this unearned divine assistance, see? Like a favor conferred by God, to help your spiritual development. The song is about how someone's life was changed completely by grace."

Francis gave her a skeptical look.

"No, it's for real. Or at least it was to the man who wrote the song. My great-grandfather said it was written by an 18th century slave ship captain who repented and became a country preacher after surviving a storm at sea. Guess he figured God was trying to tell him something."

Francis automatically pulled down the shirt sleeve that covered the tattoo on his right wrist. Maybe the song made some sense after all.

Pat caught the habitual gesture and shrugged. "Yeah, well, I guess you don't want to hear any more about that." She picked up the vacuum cleaner, but Francis interrupted her before she could turn it on.

"Are there more verses?"

She nodded.

"Will you sing them, Please? I'm curious how it goes."

When she had obliged him with a somewhat less enthusiastic rendition of the other verses, she stopped and turned away.

"Thank you. That's -- interesting. But how come you know that song? I never see you go to church. It is a church song, isn't it?" he amended quickly.

"Yeah, it is." A strange expression crossed her face, almost as if she was surprised to realize she had in fact been singing a religious song. She frowned darkly for a moment. "You're right, I don't go to church because I don't hold with that nonsense anymore. But I learned a lot of hymns from great-granddad when I was just a little girl. 'Course, he was an old man by then, but in his youth he'd been a circuit rider for some of the black congregations in this part of the state." She looked down at the vacuum cleaner still in her hand. "I don't guess he'd be too happy with me now. Like you said, I don't go to church anymore."

"Circuit rider? Sounds like that would be someone who rides around in circles, but I suppose that's not right, is it?"

"Well, no, not quite. Way back then, no one church could afford to pay a minister just for themselves, so a few of them shared his services, each paying part of his salary. He had to do a lot of travelling around, though. And in those days, horses were the main form of transportation. Granddad used to tell me he spent more time with his horse than with any of his congregations."

A faraway look had come over Pat's face, accompanied by a slight smile. She leaned against the edge of the dresser, vacuum cleaner forgotten.

Suddenly, Francis swiveled his head sharply, his attention focused on the sounds he'd just heard. Gravel had crunched in the driveway leading to the Inn. Just once, as if it were the result of an inadvertent footstep, but after that had come a faint cracking of branches, as if someone might have stumbled into a bush in the windy darkness outside. He probably wouldn't have noticed the faint noises, if he hadn't been already on edge.

Placing a finger across his lips in the human gesture for silence, he whispered, "Thought I heard something out front."

Leaving the lights on in the room where they had been working, they moved carefully across the hall and edged into one of the darkened guest rooms facing the entrance to the Inn. Francis peered out of the second-story window, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. On the basis of past experience, he half expected to see a cross blaze into flame, surrounded by ghostly figures in white robes.

But there was no cross. There was nothing except the wind and a few splatters of raindrops. He had almost convinced himself that he was imagining things when a cat screeched indignantly, as if it had been stepped on, then came hurtling out across the lawn from the shadows along the south wing of the building.

Francis raced out of the room, down the steps, and along the first floor of the south wing, pausing only when he had reached the exit door at the end. He listened but could hear nothing directly outside.

Easing the door open slightly, he slipped through.

Silently rounding the rear corner, Francis caught sight of a shadowed figure almost halfway down the length of the building, crouched over something. A match flared in the darkness, then blew out in the wind. The brief instant of light had been enough to reveal a pile of rags and paper against the wooden side of the Inn, with a gasoline can lying nearby.

Another match scratched into life. But just as Francis yelled, "Freeze!" and started forward, the intruder leaped up abruptly, the match flying off to one side as if it had been struck by something. It landed harmlessly in the grass and sputtered out.

The would-be arsonist looked around in confusion, saw Francis coming, and took off across the lawn. Small in stature, it might have been a short man or perhaps a woman.

After kicking the pile of gasoline-soaked rags away from the building, Francis sprinted after the intruder. He could easily track the stranger by sound, as he crunched through dead leaves and twigs. He was moving parallel to the river, following the scenic path they had cleared for the use of the Inn's guests. It didn't take long for Francis to close the distance between himself and the one he pursued. Must be a human, if he could catch up so easily.

Aware now that he was being followed, the intruder picked up his pace. He was already gasping for breath. Just as Francis reached out to grab the human's shoulder, the intruder veered sharply to one side, off the path and into the bushes. Following close behind, Francis stepped abruptly over the edge of a short drop, skidding on mud and slippery stones down toward the often salty water of the Yaupon River.

Landing on a thin strip of muck studded with sparse clumps of reeds, Francis' first impulse was to turn and scramble wildly back up the slippery bank. He stopped himself from doing that by sheer force of will. The human he had been chasing was sprawled only a short distance away, on hands and knees in the shallow water at the river's edge. The stranger coughed and shook his head from side to side, slinging wet hair out of his face.

The human was an adolescent boy, Francis noted. He was almost within arm's reach. If Francis could just step out into the water, he'd have him. But the Inn was only a few miles from the river's outlet into the sea, and the tide must be in, judging by the faint smell of salt in the air.

Francis hesitated, and the boy caught sight of him. Uttering an inarticulate cry, the human threw himself sideways towards the deeper part of the river. The clinging mud betrayed him, allowing him only to slosh down a few feet further from his pursuer.

Francis could see that the boy's next attempt would succeed. Setting his teeth, he stepped into the dank water with his right foot, thankful for the heavy woolen socks and lace-up ankle boots he was wearing. If he could move quickly enough, the water would barely have time to soak through to his flesh.

Bending his knee and leaning out over the water, Francis grabbed hold of the boy's jacket with one hand and dragged him backwards. The human tried to twist around, flailing his arms and legs and splashing. As soon as he could withdraw his foot, Francis did so, feeling the salty water already soaking into his boot. He had to get out of here quickly and get that boot off.

"Hold still or I'll break your arm," he said to the still-struggling human, getting a grip on the boy's upper arm even though he could feel the wet fabric burning the palm of his hand. The quiet menace in Francis' voice combined with the fingers digging into the boy's arm convinced him to obey.

With his free hand, Francis pulled his own belt out of his pants, then jerked the human's hands together behind his back, securing them with the belt. He was about to hoist the boy up over the riverbank when he heard Pat's voice calling him.

"Over here," he replied. She wasn't far away, probably up on the path. He caught a glimpse of a flashlight beam in the darkness.

"I've got my gun, boss. Where are you? Do you need help?" she asked tensely, parting the bushes above him.

"I'm okay. Got someone I'd like you to meet though." Francis lifted the boy into the air, shoving him half over the bank and practically into Pat's lap. "Tie his feet," he ordered brusquely. "I want to talk to this little tert."

Grabbing an overhanging bush, Francis pulled himself up and away from the water. Safely on the bank, he fumbled with stinging fingers at the laces in his boot, cursing. Before he could ask for her help, Pat knelt in front of him, carefully pulling off the sodden boot and peeling the sock away. Skinning out of her sweatshirt, she patted the remaining dampness from his foot with the cloth.

"Looks pretty red, boss. Can you walk?"

Francis knew he could walk, but only if there was no other choice. "We're not far from the driveway here. Why don't you go get the car?"

She nodded. "Here, take my gun. In case our young friend over there gets ideas."

"If this little punk gets any ideas, I'll dissuade him with my bare hands."

"Take the gun anyway, boss. I'll be back as fast as I can."

 

A half hour later, Francis lay on the couch in the Inn's recreation room, his foot washed clean of the remaining river water and covered with a light dressing. The burns weren't as bad as they could have been, but his foot and ankle hurt like hell, despite the pill he'd taken for the pain. He'd surely blister, but no lasting damage would be done if he was careful and kept off that foot until it healed. Pat had propped it up with several pillows, hoping to minimize any swelling.

"I still think we should call Richard and get him to take a look at those burns," she protested.

"In the morning. There's nothing more Richard could do, anyway. First I want to talk to our friend over there." He nodded toward the boy, who was securely trussed up and sitting in a chair, trying to look defiant but succeeding only in looking scared.

"Hmph," Pat snorted. "The only ones who need to talk to him are the police. We caught him in the act, didn't we?"

But Francis was staring at the human youngster. "Talk to me, boy. What's your name?"

The human said nothing, but squirmed uneasily against the hard wooden chair. His damp clothes clung to his slender frame. Now and again he shivered.

"Would you prefer to talk to the police?" Francis asked softly. "I assure you, that can be arranged."

"My name's A.C.," he finally admitted.

"That's not a name."

"Yeah, boss, it is," Pat interjected. "Lots of folks go by initials around here. A.C., huh? That's most commonly an abbreviation for Alton Carroll. Am I right?"

The boy nodded grudgingly.

"What's your last name – uh -- A.C.?" Francis asked, trying to get the feel of the odd name.

"Gilbert," he replied.

"And what were you doing on our property at this hour of the night?"

Anger twisted across the youngster's face. "What d'ya think I was doin', slag? I was gonna burn this place down," he snarled.

"Did Larry Hatfrey tell you to do it?"

"Nobody told me to do it. It was my own idea." He leered. "Saw you at the Wells' house the last couple of nights. They're just down the block from me. Peeked in a window to see what all the fuss was about. When I realized what you were up to, that made up my mind. The last thing we need in Cartersville is more baby slags. I figured to run you out of here once and for all, without anyone else's help."

While A.C.'s expressed motive was certainly plausible, Francis had heard enough to recognize the boy's voice and confirm his suspicion that this had indeed been the youngest of the Klansmen who had been involved in the original attack on the Wagners, the attack that had eventually led to Francis' decision to settle down in this area.

"I seem to recall that you once wanted to see what saltwater did to newcomers," Francis said mildly, referring to that earlier incident. "Well, I trust you've gotten a pretty good look at my foot. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

A.C. frowned at Francis' remark. Then his expression changed. Evidently, he too remembered the Wagners, and the way he had terrorized Jane by threatening to smear saltwater on her face.

"Uh, yeah. I'm not curious anymore," he said, some of the anger draining away. "You know, if you weren't a slag, I'd probably like you. You got guts."

"Guts?"

"Yeah. I've seen other people whipped before. You're the only one who didn't scream. Guess you learned to be brave when you were an Overseer, huh? That must have been cool." A.C.'s voice sounded positively enthusiastic.

Francis' soul froze within him. He narrowed his eyes and said in a cold voice, "If I indeed have what you call guts, it isn't because I was an Overseer. To terrorize helpless people does not require courage. It requires only cowardice. To enjoy it requires cowardice of a particularly disgusting sort."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you think it's what the humans want to hear, right?" A.C. stated knowingly. "Well, it's not what I want to hear. I'm tired of all these mealy-mouthed wimps. I admire strength and courage."

"And you think you've found it in the Klan?" Pat asked, walking over closer to the boy.

"Among other places, yeah."

She put out a hand and touched his earlobe, even as he flinched away from her. "This one of those other places, A.C.?"

Caught by Pat's gesture, Francis' eyes focussed on the earring the young human wore and found it to be a swastika. Great. Just what they needed.

A.C. nodded. "Yeah. But I wouldn't expect a nigger to understand."

"And why not? Don't you know there are Black Supremacist groups in this country? The underlying philosophy isn't so very different," she said smoothly.

"Yeah, well, I don't give a damn about them. The Nazis were awesome. They knew how to do it right."

"Suuure," Pat agreed sarcastically. "Nazis are far from being the only examples of well-organized human brutality, but they seem to have become the modern symbol of such things." She shrugged. "Guess it's not too surprising if an insecure kid like you admires them."

"Whaddaya mean, insecure kid? I'm sixteen years old. I'm a man!"

Pat smiled wryly. Francis decided to change the subject a bit. "What do you like about the Nazis? Or, for that matter, the Klan, or the Kleezantsun#?"

"They're not weaklings. They do what they want and make people like it. They're masters, not wimps. They got courage."

"I see," Francis replied, nodding. He had the young human figured now. "There are many words for that sort of thing, but I'm afraid courage isn't one of them. You want to see the kind of 'courage' someone like that has? Take a look at the trials of your Nazi war criminals. They did their best to tell you it wasn't their fault, someone else made them do it, they were only following orders. They couldn't even take responsibility for their own actions. That's the kind of courage your precious Nazis had. If that's what you want, you're well on your way to finding it with the Klan."

"Yeah, right," A.C. sneered. "Does that apply to you too, Overseer?"

"I sincerely hope not," Francis replied, taken aback. "Not anymore, at least."

Pat came to his rescue. "A.C., it's quite possible to be a man without being a monster, you know. All this isn't necessary."

"What would you know about being a man, bitch? Or do you expect me to listen to you because you're a perverted dyke who wants to be a man herself?"

"First off, I don't want to be a man. Secondly, being a real man, or for that matter, a woman, means being a person with the courage to live by your own morals and take responsibility for your own actions. It doesn't mean stepping all over other people."

"Yeah. It's only okay to be a wimp. That's what you mean, isn't it?" A.C. replied. "It's good to be a weakling, but you mustn't be strong or aggressive. Bullshit!"

"I knew someone once who said that weakness in and of itself is no virtue, but strength wrongly used is a vice," Francis replied, Kheersa's voice vivid in his mind. "Strength controlled and properly used is the positive good. She said if the only possible choice is to be a master or to be a slave, the right thing is to be the slave."

"Sorry, pal. Not interested," was A.C.'s scornful retort.

The conversation seemed to have reached an impasse. In the silence following the boy's remark, a voice said harshly in Tenctonese, *Too bad you didn't follow your own advice, Overseer.*

Francis pulled himself up on the couch and turned toward the door to the Front Office. Finding himself looking down the business end of a revolver, he made no attempt to get to his feet. The intruder's face was covered by a black ski mask, but there were no bulges which might have concealed human hair or ears. By voice, height and build, Francis figured himself to be facing a newcomer male.

"You, woman," the masked man ordered Pat, "hand over your gun to me and come into the Office. I want the front door locked, the lights out, and the No Vacancy sign on, so no one bothers us." As Pat complied, he continued to Francis, *I'm going to stand right here by the door. One wrong move from you, and I put a bullet through her. Understand?*

Francis nodded, still sitting motionless on the couch. He kept his hands conspicuously resting on his thighs.

When Pat had once more returned to the rec room, the gunman stood looking at the two humans as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. He didn't have the stance and assurance of a professional killer, but Francis knew a nervous amateur could be even more dangerous, if he were spooked. Best stay very calm and do nothing to alarm him, at least until he found out what this was all about.

*I assume your business is with me?* Francis suggested, keeping his voice level. *If you want the humans out of the way, why don't you lock them in the storage closet over there? It has no window, and the door can be locked from the outside.*

The intruder sidled warily over to the door Francis had indicated, pushing it open with his foot and glancing quickly inside the small room. Satisfied, he ordered curtly, "Woman, untie the boy from the chair, but leave his wrists bound. Bring the extra rope over to Bin Tr – uh -- him." He gestured with the gun. "Overseer, tie her wrists, and make sure you do a good job."

Pat looked reluctant to allow this, but Francis said softly, "It's okay. Do as he says."

"All right, both you terts get in here. If I hear any noise out of you, you'll be sorry." He locked the door behind them, then went over and sat down in the chair opposite Francis, who hadn't moved from the couch. *Let's keep this all in Tenctonese, shall we? Then your friends won't know what's going on and I won't have to do anything drastic in the way of keeping them quiet later. They didn't see my face, so they can't identify me.*

*Fine with me,* Francis replied. Anything to keep Pat out of this. The intruder had no way of knowing just how well she understood Tenctonese. He shifted his burned foot so that it was propped up on the coffee table, in order that he could face the other man more directly.

With his free hand, the gunman peeled the mask back over his head, then smiled coldly. *It's been a long time, Bin Treyma. Do you recognize me?*

*Bin Thanika. As you say, it's been a long time.* Francis tried desperately to hide the shock he felt. He and Thanika Lestrei had been boys together, back on the Ship, before --

He pushed that thought back into the recesses of his mind. *To what do I owe this visit?*

*You've been in the newspapers lately, Treyma. The Order has heard stories about you. The Drevny of the New York City Chapter House sent me to find out what you're up to.*

Thanika's words weren't threatening, but his voice betrayed him. It was too tight, too controlled, as if he were primed and ready to explode at any moment. He clutched the gun at an awkward angle, his eyes darting down every so often as if to make sure it was still pointed at Francis.

Shaken by the knowledge that he had come to the attention of the Order, Francis nevertheless kept up his attitude of unconcern. The last thing he wanted to do was push the other binnaum over the edge and into violence.

He shrugged casually. Familiar pain lanced through his bad shoulder at the movement, warning him that his muscles felt the tension he was trying so hard to conceal. *Why would the Drevny care? I'm not one of his people.*

*Oh, we know that. But you disappeared from sight a few years ago, and now you've apparently chosen to surface here. We did some checking and word has it that you're not only practicing outside the Order, but you're also desecrating our ceremonies by doing it as if you were entitled to practice. That doesn't go over too well.*

*That's my business, not the Drevny's.* 

Thanika's voice edged toward shrillness. *The Order cannot be represented by someone like you!* 

Easy. Play it nice and easy. Try to put him at ease.

*I'm not representing anything. People know who I am and they know I'm not one of you,* Francis pointed out reasonably.

Thanika settled back in his chair, seeming to draw assurance from glancing at his gun again. *I won't argue with you. Besides, it's really not a moot point. I don't intend to let you live, so you won't be catalyzing any more children anyway.*

Francis wasn't particularly surprised that Thanika wanted to see him dead, but it wasn't at all typical for the Order to commit murder. Perhaps if he could get the other man talking, he might find out what was really bothering Thanika. *The Drevny didn't send you here to kill me, surely?* 

*Of course not. I'm only supposed to investigate the rumors we've heard and report on what you're doing. Getting rid of you is my idea. I've been in Cartersville for almost two weeks, mostly disguised as a human, observing what's going on.* He leaned back and crossed his legs. *I was observing the coupling ceremony at the Wells' house last night and I saw the disgraceful performance you put on. That's what made me realize this can't be allowed to continue, regardless of what our Drevny says. I must admit you've got the ceremony down pat. In fact, you actually sounded sincere. If I didn't know you better, I might almost have believed you were a devout Celinist.*

*Thank you,* Francis replied.

Thanika smiled smugly. *I had just gotten to the Inn tonight and ascertained that you and your partner were alone when I heard the human boy coming down the road. Dumb kid didn't even see the cat sleeping under the azaleas. Sometimes I wonder about humans.* He shook his head in mock pity. *Anyway, once I realized what he was doing, I decided I didn't want him burning the building down. That would interfere with my plans for you. I knocked the match out of his hand with a rock, just as you showed up.* He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. *I could have nailed you anytime while you were chasing him, but I wanted you to realize who it was and why I did it. When you all came in here, I snuck in the side entrance.* His smile faded. *I've been listening to all your pretty speeches, Treyma, but they won't do you any good with me. I haven't forgotten that you betrayed our teacher to the Kleezantsun#.*

Francis caught his breath, fighting the panic that clawed at his hearts. *That was a long time ago.*

*So? Does that change anything?* When the other man didn't answer, Thanika continued harshly, *I'm going to kill you. But first I'm going to make you crawl.*

The threat prompted an automatic reaction of disdain. Francis shook his head. *I'm sorry to disappoint you, Thanika. Kill me, yes. But that's about all you could do.*

*Oh, really? Do you think you're so strong that I couldn't break you?*

*Not at all. It's just that you may hate me, but you aren't someone who can be warped by that hatred into becoming the kind of torturer it would take to make me crawl. At least, for your sake, I hope you're not.*

*I wouldn't be so sure of that, Overseer.* Thanika stretched out his legs in front of him and settled back again, but the gun barrel never wavered from Francis' chest. *However, since I'm not in any real hurry, there are a few things I've been wanting to ask you for a very long time. I hope you'll be kind enough to oblige me with some answers without needing to be persuaded.*

Francis leaned back on the couch, pretending to relax. Much as he wanted to keep Thanika talking, something told him he didn't really want to hear what he might say. *What is it you'd like to know?*

Thanika hesitated, a strange look coming over his face. When he spoke, it almost sounded as if he were pleading.

*Why, Treyma? Why did you go over to them? We grew up together. We were friends. When Bin Dalvi undertook to teach us our traditions secretly, he knew he was risking his life if the Overseers found out. Him and all the others taking the same chance all over the Ship. When they took us for questioning, none of the other boys gave him away. But you never came back and neither did Dalvi. I don't know what happened to him, but the next we saw of you was two years later, and you were one of them.*

Thanika's question raked Francis' soul over hot coals. The memory of that terrible time still haunted him. Piedra Frelani had questioned all the boys, yes, but she'd paid special attention to him. She had gotten it into her head to recruit him for the Kleezantsun#, even though most of the other Overseers thought she was being foolish. For a binnaum to be one of the Chosen was an extremely rare occurrence.

He still had nightmares about the things Piedra had done to him, and the way she had finally broken down his resistance, convincing him to name Bin Dalvi as his teacher. Later on, she had told him it had been the very length of time it had taken her to break him that made her decide he had potential as an Overseer.

Francis didn't especially want to tell Thanika about those days. He never wanted to tell anyone about them. He tried to sidetrack his inquisitor by asking, *Didn't it occur to you that Piedra was only amusing herself with us, Than? If all she had wanted was Dalvi's name, a good dose of the gas would have made any one of us tell her what she wanted. She didn't need to torture us. She just enjoyed it, that's all.*

*That has occurred to me,* Thanika replied. *Nevertheless, you were the one who didn't come back and you were the one who ended up an Overseer. I'm still waiting to hear your explanation.*

Well, if he had to say it, he would make it as simple as possible. *If Piedra questioned you, you know how persuasive she can be. She made me see the advantages of being one of the Chosen and offered me that opportunity. Naming Dalvi was only one of the many things I did gladly, in order to convince her I was worthy.*

*She tortured all of us, Treyma. None of us broke, except you,* Thanika stated coldly.

*How long did she work on you and the others?*

*Two, maybe three, days. It was hard to tell exactly.* Thanika shrugged, as if to pass it off lightly, but from the expression on his face, Francis figured those days still recurred in the other binnaum's nightmares also.

*Um-hm. But could you have held out against her for two weeks, if she had really decided to play with your mind at the same time?*

Thanika appeared a bit uncertain now. *I don't know. But I would have tried.*

*I tried. I didn't make it.* He wasn't particularly proud of that, but it was the truth.

Thanika considered this in silence for a minute. Francis had time to wonder what Pat and A.C. were doing. He hoped they wouldn't try anything foolish, since he was virtually certain Thanika wouldn't harm them if they just kept quiet. He had heard no noises from that direction. Was Pat listening to this entire conversation? He fervently hoped her Tenctonese wasn't good enough to follow the gist of what was being said, if so. There were some things he never wanted her to know about, despite their friendship.

*All right,* Thanika finally admitted, *maybe I couldn't have stood up to that. Maybe I'd have betrayed Dalvi too. But to join them, Treyma? After what they did to us?* He shook his head.

Francis knew he should leave it at that, but something compelled him to try to make the other binnaum understand.

*At first it seemed like the only way to make her stop hurting me, but later on the prospect of being Kleezantsun# looked downright appealing. Given the choice of being a master or a slave, it seemed like all the advantages went with being the master.*

Stop now! Stop! he told himself, but his traitor voice went right on speaking, in a cold monotone that reflected his turbulent feelings not at all.

*Piedra convinced me that the strong had the right to rule. Those who were cargo were there because they were weak and inferior beings. I came to believe that. I had to believe it.* He stopped, taking a breath in an effort to steady himself. *Besides, I was young, not even thirteen years old. And I wasn't used to being hurt.*

Gaining control of himself at last, Francis cut himself off before he could begin pleading for the other man's understanding and forgiveness. That would gain him nothing and he knew it.

Thanika changed his tack. *What happened to Dalvi, Treyma? Do you know?*

*Yes,* Francis admitted reluctantly. I know only too well!

The memory was engraved on his mind, as clear now as on the day it had happened.

Treyma walked into the room along with the two other candidates, one male, one female, and both quite a bit younger than he was. He knew what he would have to do in order to become an Overseer: take the double-bladed cryth and kill the victim they had chosen for him. The only thing he didn't know was who that victim would be.

He straightened his back as he stood in line with the others. It didn't matter who it was. He would kill his victim without any hesitation. He was finished with being a slave. From now on, he was going to be an Overseer. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would stop him. He had destroyed his weakness, his treacherous ability to care about other people. Nothing could touch him now. He was free. And he was about to become one of the Chosen.

He didn't know the other two youngsters. They had been picked out and trained in the usual way, so he hadn't had much to do with them. He'd been trained by Piedra, after she had --

No, better not to think of that now. He wanted nothing to disturb the icy calm he felt. Besides, all that was over. Once he had agreed to join the Kleezantsun#, she hadn't hurt him anymore. Or at least, no more than had been necessary.

The past two years had been hard, as he'd tried to learn in a short time what the others had had much of their childhoods to absorb. But Piedra's methods had worked. He had wiped all feeling from his mind. He was ready to do whatever he had to do.

Some of Piedra's colleagues had questioned her assessment of him, doubting whether a binnaum could be an effective Overseer. But Piedra had backed him. Now he would prove she had been right.

He watched in stony detachment as the first victim, a young man, was shackled to the floor. The candles flickered and danced in the darkened room, the light glancing off the blades of the cryth as Janek, the senior Overseer for this section of the Ship, placed the weapon in the hand of the female candidate. She recognized her victim; that was clear from the anguished expression on her face. Walking stiff-legged, she crossed the room and knelt. Her arm lifted, then fell. The victim cried out once and was silent. The girl rose to her feet, triumphant.

Treyma nodded his head a fraction in approval. She would be one of his colleagues in the years to come. Good.

The girl was led off, the victim's body cleared away, its place filled by an elderly woman. The boy standing next to Treyma gasped. His mouth worked as if he were trying to say something, but couldn't. The cryth was placed in his hand, but his fingers refused to close around it. Janek spoke to him in a low voice. The boy pulled himself together, grasped the handle and started forward.

Coldly appraising, Treyma judged that he would fail and would revert to being cargo again. The trial was set up that way deliberately; if you didn't kill your victim, the person would be allowed to live. You would never be Kleezantsun#, but you wouldn't be killed either. (Too easy, if it were merely a choice of your life or theirs. Much more revealing of true strength of character this way. If you were worthy of being one of the Chosen, you wouldn't hesitate to kill for that privilege.)

The boy tried. Trembling, he raised the knife. The old woman's lips moved, but Treyma couldn't hear what she said. Not that it mattered. There should be no weakness left for a victim to appeal to.

The boy tossed the knife away and buried his face in his hands. Janek strode over. Grasping the boy by the shoulder, he dragged him to his feet and shoved him disdainfully in the direction of two other Overseers, who took him away.

It was Treyma's turn now. Across the room, Piedra stared at him intently, her face betraying nothing but her body tensed into an unnatural stiffness. He caught her eye, giving her just the fraction of a confident smile. She would lose face badly if he failed. She had gambled on him, hoping to increase her prestige and power if she was right.

He allowed himself to wonder who they had found to be his victim. He was quite certain there was no one he would mind killing. His mother was long dead and his father had been left at the mining colony on Alorak four years ago. He had no brothers or sisters. And as for friends, what friends did he have, besides Piedra?

It was with more curiosity than apprehension that he watched his victim brought into the room. At first, he didn't recognize the young man in the white robe, since he hadn't seen him for two years. When he realized it was Dalvi Valens, his first reaction was surprise.

He had thought the other binnaum long dead. Once he had named Dalvi as the one who was secretly teaching the boys about Tenctonese tradition, he had assumed that his betrayal had meant the man's death. That had obviously not been the case. Dalvi must have been kept in isolation all this time, in anticipation of this day.

Piedra. Had this been her doing? He wouldn't put it past the woman. But no, it couldn't have been Piedra. She wanted him to succeed in this trial. She wouldn't have deliberately chosen as his victim the one person he might actually hesitate to kill.

Keeping the panic out of his eyes, Treyma looked at Piedra. She met his gaze steadily, seeming to understand the question. Then her eyes flickered past his shoulder and she nodded her head fractionally in the direction of Janek.

Treyma clenched his fists and bit the inside of his lip. This was Janek's doing. No matter, there was no way out: his victim was Dalvi. So be it.

Janek was beside him now, offering the cryth. The senior Overseer's mouth quirked upwards on one side in a sardonic smile. Doubtless he found the situation quite amusing.

Treyma lifted his chin and matched the big man stare for stare as he took the knife from his hand. Its weight felt good against his palm. He'd practiced the use of the weapon; was in fact quite adept with it. Strength flowed up his right arm from the shining blades, strength and power.

For a fleeting moment, he wanted nothing more than to drive those blades into Janek's hearts.

He stifled that thought, but not before its very intensity had cut a fine line of doubt across his determination.

Treyma's eyes lingered on the black tattoo on Janek's wrist as the man dropped his hands to his sides. That tattoo meant freedom from the gas, and from slavery and powerlessness. That was what he wanted. That was what he would have.

He strode across the room and knelt next to Dalvi.

The other binnaum seemed only now to have recognized him. Dalvi glanced wildly around the room, trying to make sense of the situation. He looked at the tunic Treyma wore, the black design matching those of the Overseers. His eyes fell on the cryth and he seemed to understand.

Treyma knew he should raise the knife and get it over with quickly. But too many memories churned beneath the enforced deadness in his brain. Dalvi's gentle words. Dalvi's arms around him when he cried over the hopelessness of it all, the other binnaum's fingers against his temples. Dalvi teaching him the traditions and how it should be, would be again, someday. The old rituals and formulas, repeated and committed to memory, between the tasks they were supposed to be doing. Words forced through a gas-fogged brain over and over until they began making sense. Meaning, and connectedness to something other than the constant misery of existence. Stories of Celine and Andarko, and the other revered ones who had done great deeds and thought great thoughts.

All this stayed Treyma's hand as he stared down at his erstwhile teacher. Shame as he recalled how he had betrayed that teacher's identity to Piedra. (Never mind that she had tortured it out of him. Never mind that he had held out for endless days. And when he finally broke, never mind that she had said she'd known it all along, but only wanted to hear him say it. Never mind all that. The fact was he had broken and betrayed someone he'd loved.)

Loved? No. He couldn't love. Love was weakness, and he had to be strong. He raised the knife.

Dalvi's eyes went wide. *Treyma, no,* he whispered. *For your own sake --* His voice trailed off when he saw the look on the young binnaum's face. He closed his eyes. *May the Infinitely Holy have mercy on you. And may you return one day to the ways of love.*

*I have learned to kill love,* Treyma said tonelessly, driving the knife into the other man's breast. Blood welled up around his hand, drenching his sleeve, but he held the blade of the cryth until Dalvi's hearts no longer pumped and his struggles had ceased.

Then he stood up, to accept Piedra's congratulations and Janek's sardonic smile.

Francis abruptly realized he had been sitting with his eyes closed, lost in yesterday. Thanika shifted position impatiently opposite him, frowning.

Francis cleared his throat. The only way he could get the words past his lips was to say them flat out, coldly and clinically, as if they didn't matter. *Yes, I know what became of Dalvi. I killed him.* 

*You what?! Why?! How could you?!* 

From the rage that was rapidly superseding shock on the other man's face, Francis knew Thanika must be about ready to pull the trigger. Somehow that thought didn't bother him nearly so much as the echoing memory of Dalvi's last words.

*It was what I had to do to prove myself worthy of being an Overseer,* he replied tonelessly. 

*Kill Dalvi?!*

Say it just as if it's only a piece of information, with no possible connection to you.

*Kill whoever it is they tell you to kill. Usually it's someone you know and have reason to care for.*

Thanika shook his head, unable to quite take in that explanation. *And if you had refused?*

*I would have gone back to being cargo.*

*That's all? I mean, I could perhaps understand if it meant your life or his, or if they would have killed Dalvi anyway.*

*That's not how it works,* Francis said, feeling as if he were explaining the obvious. *That wouldn't have proven anything.*

*I see. So you bought your admission to the Kleezantsun# with Dalvi's life? It doesn't occur to you that that was a rather high price to pay?* he asked sarcastically.

You don't understand, do you? Francis thought sorrowfully.

*Thanika, you have no idea what it was like. At the time, I'd have done anything to be accepted as one of the Chosen.*

Thanika thought that over for a minute. *And now, Bin Treyma? How does that choice seem to you now?*

That was the easiest question he'd been asked so far this evening.

Francis spread his hands in a helpless gesture and said softly, *What would you like to hear me say? That I'm sorry? That I regret my past? That I'm not like that anymore? Would any of those answers satisfy you? Would they bring Dalvi back to life? If they would, consider them said. Does that help any?*

*No! Words won't erase the past. It isn't that simple.*

Francis leaned forward, his feigned calm threatening to crack into desperation. *Do you seriously think I don't know that? Is there anything I can do to make it all right, Than? If there is, tell me and I'll do it. I haven't been able to think of it yet.*

*Oh, there's something you can do, Overseer.* The other binnaum raised the gun until Francis was looking right down the barrel. *You can die.* 

*We can all die,* Francis responded gently. *That's not much of a solution.*

*There's only one solution to someone like you.*

Maybe he's right, Francis thought, a sick shiver running through his brain. Pull the trigger. Get it over with. Then I won't have to endure this awful guilt any longer."

Aloud, he only asked softly, *Is that what your Drevny said?*

*No,* Thanika admitted. *I think he'd be satisfied if you would stop making mock of our ceremonies and beliefs. If you must catalyze children, do it like the abomination you are, not as if you're one of us.*

Despite the black despair in his hearts, something compelled Francis to keep talking.

*The people here are Celinists. They want the ceremonies. It's important to them. And you may not believe this, but it's important to me, too.* 

Thanika dismissed that last statement with a contemptuous snort. *You didn't have such scruples on the ship. It was well-known that you were part of Piedra's experiments involving the production of children by artificial means, not to mention the various forced breeding programs some of the Overseers liked to play around with. Do your Celinist friends know about that?*

*Some of them do,* Francis admitted uneasily. Mason Dixon and his late wife, Verna. Hatred still burns in Dix' eyes every time he looks at me.

*What about the ones who don't?* Thanika persisted. His eyes flickered briefly sideways to the storage closet. *Do your human friends know?* 

Celine! If Pat is listening, she heard all that!

Seeing the expression on Francis' face, Thanika smiled triumphantly, knowing he had scored a telling point. *And do people know what you did after the Ship landed, Treyma? Do they realize you continued to work for Piedra and her gang of Overseers even then? Would they still be your friends if they knew?*

Francis sat frozen in his own misery. Would Pat turn away from him, if she realized the full extent of his involvement on earth, when he no longer had even the threadbare excuse that he had had no choice? He had mentioned it to her once, but what if she found out all the details? And what about Richard and Jane and the others?

*I don't know,* he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. *I pray they would.*

Thanika's expression turned cold. *I think you'd better pray about something else right now, Overseer. I've wasted enough time talking.*

Francis tried to pull himself together. *You don't want to do this, Thanika. It will make you a murderer, just as I am.*

*Justified vengeance isn't murder.* The tension had gone out of his voice now, replaced by a cold assurance.

Francis tried another tack. *How will you explain my death to the Drevny?*

*Easy. I was in the process of investigating you when you were unfortunately shot by one of these Klu Klux Klan terts who seem to be out to get you.*

*That's Ku Klux. No l in the first word,* Francis corrected automatically. He deliberately didn't tell the other man that Pat and A.C. couldn't help but know he had been killed by a newcomer, not a human. Thanika wasn't a professional assassin or he'd have taken that into account. But pointing it out now might panic the would-be killer into eliminating them also.

*I don't care what they call themselves. If they get the blame, so much the better.* The other binnaum rose to his feet. *Stand up, Overseer. I don't want to shoot you while you're sprawled out on the couch.*

A memory of another time and another place, where Francis had been holding the gun and an old woman had faced him down by calmly inviting him to use it.

Leaning back on the couch, Francis forced a slight smile onto his lips. *Sorry to spoil your sense of drama, Than, but I think I'll stay right where I am. If I'm going to die, I'd rather be comfortable.* 

*You don't believe I'll shoot you, is that it?* Thanika said, obviously angry at Francis' attitude. *Well, you'd better start taking me seriously. I almost killed you once already.*

This was news to Francis. *Oh? When?* 

*Who do you think put that bullet through your shoulder? It would have gone through your head, if you hadn't slipped and fallen down that ravine. Once the women had gotten to you, I didn't dare try again.* At the astonished expression on the other binnaum's face, Thanika gloated, *You didn't know that was me, did you? You see, I'm not as harmless as you think I am.*

*No one driven by hatred is harmless.* But Francis was far more shaken by that bit of information than he let on. He had always assumed that shot had been fired by the assassin Piedra sent after him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined it had been Thanika Lestrei. The odds had just shifted, and not in his favor.

*Do you still think I'd hesitate to kill you?* the other man asked.

All right, he'd started playing it this way and he would play it out to the finish. He'd do as Kheersa had done and gamble his life on the possibility that there was enough good in the other person to keep him from firing that gun. And if it didn't work? Well, this was as good a way as any to die.

Looking Thanika straight in the eye, he replied softly, *Not at all. I believe you have every intention of killing me.*

*Aren't you going to say something to try to dissuade me?*

Francis shook his head. *Why bother? We've already established that that would be useless. I can't and won't deny what I did. I'm sorry for it, but I realize that isn't enough to make up for it. I am ready to accept any action on your part that will make up for it. If vengeance is that important to you, then take it.*

Francis kept his expression dead calm as his gaze locked with Thanika's. This would either work, or it wouldn't. He meant what he had said. He wasn't going to try to stop Than by force. It was his life, and he'd rather risk it trying to face Thanika down than attempting to wrest the gun from his hand. If it didn't work and his past had finally caught up with him, then so be it.

Touching his hands to his hearts, crossing them and touching again, then touching his temples, Francis whispered to himself the invocation of Celine and Andarko. Then he started reciting in his mind the traditional prayers for someone who was about to die.

It was a fairly long sequence and he had nearly reached the end by the time the other binnaum finally reacted.

Thanika lowered his revolver with a curse. *Damn you, I can't do it! I could only shoot you that other time because I saw you aiming a rifle at an old woman. I can't do it now, like this. I thought I had the courage for it, but I don't.*

Francis drew himself back from the contemplation of death and tried to make his mind run in its usual track again. It was almost a shock to realize he was still alive.

*Bin Thanika, thank the Infinitely Holy that you can't. And don't ever call the ability to do murder 'courage'. You should know better than that.*

*Yes, I suppose I should.* Putting the safety on, he stuck the gun into his jacket pocket. *I'm going back to New York to make my report. I still hate you, Treyma, and I'll get revenge someday, one way or another. That hasn't changed.* 

*I didn't expect it to.*

Thanika let himself out through the rec room door, fading into the darkness. Francis bowed his head and allowed himself to relax at last. *But I wish it had changed,* he murmured. *Oh, I wish it had!*

His reverie was interrupted by Pat's voice calling softly, "Francis? is he gone?"

"Uh, yeah." He stood up unsteadily, then limped over to the closet. "I'm coming to let you out of there now."

But he wanted to hesitate longer, unwilling to find out exactly how much Pat had overheard.

Francis unlocked the door. The humans had apparently managed to untie their wrists, but wisely hadn't dared do anything further to free themselves while Thanika had been there.

Steeling himself against the look he expected to see on Pat's face, Francis was taken entirely by surprise when A.C. was the first to come out of the room. The boy had barely cleared the doorway when he turned to the newcomer and asked sheepishly, "If I promise to quit the Klan, will you forget about what I tried to do tonight?"

"Uh -- "

"Yes, of course we will," Pat answered decisively, stepping out to join them but not looking at Francis.

"Wait a minute! Why would you quit? What's going on here?"

A.C. looked even more sheepish, if that were possible. "I need to think some things through. Maybe courage isn't quite what I thought it was. And maybe being a man isn't quite what I thought it was either."

Pat put an arm around the boy's shoulder and smiled at him, but Francis could see the tension around her eyes. "And maybe having the courage to admit that is the first step towards becoming a real man."

A.C. grinned. "Or a real woman, huh?"

"Yeah," Pat agreed, giving him a slap on the back as she released him. "Now get out of here. It's late and people will be wondering where you are."

A.C. headed for the door, leaving the newcomer staring after him in surprise. Then Francis remembered he might well have a bigger problem than just the boy on his hands.

"Uh – Pat -- ?" he started to ask.

She turned away, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the room. "Yes, I understood most of what was said, if that's what you want to know. I translated a lot of it for A.C. I suspect that's what led to his change of heart."

"I don't get it."

"As I told him what was being said, I'm afraid I slanted the truth a little," Pat said bitterly, still not meeting his eyes. "You've won a couple of people away from the Klan. I guess I thought I could do it too. I deliberately gave A.C. the impression that you were owning up to your past misdeeds because you profoundly regretted what you had done and were willing to take the consequences. I tried to make you seem like a hero, so maybe he'd get a better idea of what real courage is." She laughed shortly. "Looks like it worked."

But if her ploy had worked so well, why was she standing with her back to him and her fists clenched at her sides?

"Pat, please tell me what's wrong," he said, foreboding slithering coldly up his spine.

She turned to him abruptly, black eyes blazing. "Even as I was telling it to A.C., I realized it was a lie! It wasn't what you said, Francis. It was the way you said it. Just as calm and cold as you could be, as if none of it bothered you in the least. As if you really weren't sorry at all!"

"No, that's not true --"

"Don't make it worse by denying it! I thought I knew you pretty well. I thought you were being honest with me about regretting what you had done, and all the rest of that. But tonight, talking to him --" She shook her head in disgust "-- you didn't even sound ashamed when you admitted you murdered that teacher of yours, just so you could become an Overseer!"

This was nothing like any of the possible reactions he had anticipated. It was so far from the truth that Francis was taken completely aback.

"You don't understand --" he finally managed to say.

"There's nothing to understand! You gave us all that 'Oh, I'm so sorry' routine, but when you were talking to someone you knew you couldn't fool and you didn't think I could tell what you were saying, what you really feel came out! You lied to me, Francis. And that's the one thing I can't forgive."

"No, Pat. I never lied to you," he said, willing with all his soul that she would believe him.

"Don't give me that!" she snapped. "Our whole friendship is built on a lie. You're not sorry about your past at all. The only thing you're sorry about is that it's over!"

"I quit all that," Francis tried to object. "I left Piedra of my own free will --"

"Did you really? Or did she just get sick of having a binnaum for a playtoy? Besides, you weren't in any hurry to leave, once you were here on earth. You told me you stuck with her for over a year."

"I explained about that. I --"

"Oh yes. You were afraid." Her voice dripped sarcasm. "Afraid, Francis? You, who faced down poor Bin Thanika without turning a hair? Am I supposed to believe you went from being a monumental coward to being a hero, practically overnight?"

Yes, he thought. Yes, because that's the truth. And because there's a big difference between facing Thanika Lestrei and facing Piedra Frelani. But he couldn't say that, because then he'd have to explain more about Piedra.

"Well, if you think I'm impressed by your cold-blooded heroics tonight, you'd better think twice," she went on. "I may have fooled A.C. into thinking you're a hero, but you sure didn't fool me."

"I wasn't trying to fool anyone," he replied haughtily. She was carrying this just a little too far. His nerves, already lacerated by the run-in with Thanika, were rapidly fraying. The throbbing pain in his burned foot wasn't helping matters any either.

She snorted. "What did you do on the Ship, Francis? Seems you've been pretty vague about the details, haven't you? How many other people did you murder besides Dalvi?"

His incipient anger detoured into confusion in the face of this new accusation. "I -- don't know. I didn't --"

"Didn't what? Keep count? Damn it to hell, what kind of a monster were you?!" 

Barely controlled rage twisted Pat's face into the visage of a ferocious stranger. He backed away in surprise.

"You -- don't want to know," he choked out, unable even now to overcome his pervasive sense of guilt.

"Ah, but I do. And Thanika already told me, remember? In addition to your other duties, you were involved in some experimental breeding programs, right? Now why do I get the impression that your subjects were somewhat less than willing participants in your 'scientific' research? Assuming there was anything even remotely scientific about it, that is."

"Oh, there was," he said, clinging to some hope of explaining his actions. "We were trying to find more efficient ways to produce children. We tried all kinds of things."

Now it was her turn to back away. Eyeing him as if he'd just turned into some sort of noisome object, she asked coldly, "Are any of those things you'd like to tell me about in more detail?"

Silence, as Francis realized he should have kept his mouth closed.

"No answer, huh? What were you, some kind of a rapist?"

Worse than that, Pat. Much worse.

He hung his head, unable to reply.

"Is that what Verna and Mason Dixon had against you?" she persisted. "Is that why they hated you so?"

"Pat, don't do this to me," he begged.

"Don't do this to you?! What did you do to them?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Then maybe I should ask Dix," she said scornfully. "Maybe he'd tell me the truth about you, since it seems you haven't -- Overseer."

In spite of himself, Francis winced at the epithet that was also the truth. Pat, I trusted you. I cared for you. I told you what I dared not tell anyone else.

But he couldn't say that aloud.

"Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?" she demanded.

No excuses came to his lips, for he had none. All he could do was stare at her in misery.

"My god! And to think I trusted you! I went into business with you!" She looked at the walls of the Inn as if they were about to fall in and crush her. She ran out into the Front Office.

Francis heard the door to her apartment open, then slam shut. He stood staring at the empty place where Pat had been, her accusing voice echoing in his mind. Then he started shaking.

 

The following day, Francis limped painfully over to the Inn, hoping he'd be able to set things straight with Pat, but she refused to speak to him at all.

Scarlett O'Hara and Gypsy Rose Lee had offered to help out in Housekeeping over the holiday weekend, knowing how short of staff the Inn was. When the two Tenctonese women showed up later that morning, Francis figured Pat must have asked them to come in a day early in order to make up the rooms that he should have been working on with her.

Francis decided discretion might indeed be the better part of valor, so he made himself scarce during the busy holiday weekend. Although the swelling was beginning to go down in his foot, he still couldn't walk well enough to be useful, so he didn't feel particularly guilty about doing nothing.

Sitting alone in his cottage with his foot propped up, he brooded over what had happened. In unguarded moments, the chance recollection of some remark Thanika had made would send a fresh wave of self-loathing crashing down over his mind. His feet cramped with anxiety and once he actually vomited into a nearby wastebasket.

When Sunday afternoon finally arrived and the last guests had been loaded onto their buses and sent off, Francis expected Pat to come over any minute to talk things out with him.

As the shadows lengthened toward evening and she still hadn't appeared, he trudged over to her apartment and knocked on the door.

"Who's there?" came the muffled response.

"It's Francis. We need to talk."

"Go away."

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Damn it, Pat, we have to talk --" he began.

Pat had a suitcase on the couch and was rapidly filling it with clothes, tears running down her face.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stunned.

She stopped and looked up at him. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm leaving. I don't want anything more to do with you."

"But -- but -- the Inn --" he stammered. "We're partners --"

"Are we? Partners trust each other. We don't, not anymore."

"You can't leave."

"No? Just watch me ." She resumed her packing. "Get out, Francis. Leave me alone. I'll be gone in a couple of hours."

"But where will you go?" he asked, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

"Scarlett's. I've got an open invitation to stay with her anytime."

"But what will happen to the Inn?"

Her lips twisted into a mocking smile. "In the immortal words of Rhett Butler, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."'

They had watched that movie together on HBO only last week, laughing about some of the quaint ideas it portrayed. The memory of that shared time sent a pang through his hearts, even as his anger began to burn.

"Pat, don't --"

She strode over to the door and jerked it open. "Just do me a favor and get out, will you? You've done enough damage already."

So have you, Francis thought bitterly as he stalked out of the apartment, wrenching the knob from her hand and slamming the door behind him.

How dare she? After all he'd done for her, all the money he'd invested in the Inn. Why, she'd still be a two-bit clerk at that rundown motel where she used to work if not for him!

How could she have so misinterpreted what he had said to Thanika? What was wrong with humans, anyway?


	5. I Once Was Lost

I ONCE WAS LOST

I once was lost, but now am found,  
Was blind, but now I see.  
"Amazing Grace" by John Newton

 

The portable phone buzzed once, but Francis ignored it, too busy stuffing a load of blankets into the washing machine. Despite the cold rain beating down outside, it was uncomfortably warm in the laundry room. The machines had been running constantly all morning, as Francis and Willy Roquist, the Inn's maintenance man, worked to get all the blankets, bedspreads, towels and linens cleaned and stored away for the winter. For the next four months, there wouldn't be enough tourists in Cartersville to keep the Inn in business, so it was more economical to simply shut down.

The phone buzzed again.

"All right, all right. Keep your skirt on, as the humans would say," Francis mumbled irritably. "I'll answer you in a minute." Tucking the last blanket into the tub, he set the dial and started the washer before reaching for the receiver clipped to his belt.

He yanked the antenna out to its full length and thumbed the button, reciting automatically, "Atlantic Inn. May I help you?"

"Mr. Bernardone, this is Larry Hatfrey."

Not exactly someone he wanted to speak to right now.

"Yes?" he said curtly.

"I hear tell you and your partner have had a bit of a falling-out. Perhaps you may be considering selling the Inn?"

"No, Mr. Hatfrey. I don't think so."

"That's too bad," Larry replied smoothly. "I'm in the position to make you both a very good offer."

"You made a good offer last summer and we turned you down, remember?"

"Ah, but I can do even better now."

Better? You offered us half again what this place is worth already.

"I'm sorry, but the answer is still no."

"Tsk tsk tsk. You just never learn, do you? Well, perhaps Ms. Fisher will look at things differently."

"She won't sell either."

"Are you so sure of that?"

Francis only wished that he was. Pat might very well want out, at this point. Nevertheless, he replied firmly, "She wouldn't sell to you, Larry. Not so the inn could become part of your resort."

"We'll see about that," the oily voice on the phone replied with maddening confidence. "Everyone has a price, you know."

"Not Pat."

She wouldn't. Would she?

"Maybe you'd like to hear my offer?"

Francis was beginning to lose patience. He wasn't in a good mood to start with. His barely healed foot throbbed from standing too long, and now this tert had the effrontery to go on bothering him.

"No," he snapped.

Larry's voice turned hard. "Very well, Mr. Bernardone. But I'd advise you to think about it. No more offers will be forthcoming. This is your last chance."

The line went dead.

Now why did he get the feeling that those words referred to more than just a final offer of money?

He shrugged and turned off the phone. Let Larry play his games. There was work to be done.

 

By early evening, Francis was relaxing in front of a crackling fire in his woodstove, snacking on a plate of raw seagull wings and congratulating himself on a job well done.

It had taken barely a week to shut down the Inn, once it officially closed after Thanksgiving. The water was turned off, the pipes drained, all the ground-floor windows secured and shuttered, the laundry done, the "Closed" signs up, and a long list of other minor tasks completed. Willy had been invaluable to him over the last few days. Without Pat's expertise, Francis hadn't been entirely sure what needed to be done, but the black man had been full of suggestions and ideas, so together they had made it through. He was sorry to have to lay the human off for the winter, but at least Willy would be able to collect unemployment and know he had a job waiting for him again in the Spring.

When someone knocked on the door to his cottage, Francis groaned. The last thing he wanted just now was to be disturbed, but it would be hard to pretend he wasn't home when his van was parked in plain sight in the driveway.

*Francis! Come on, open up! I know you're in there! *

That was Scarlett O'Hara's voice. Wearily, Francis hoisted himself out of his chair. Maybe she'd have some word from Pat, who was staying at her house since she'd left the Inn.

After inviting Scarlett in and making the Tenctonese woman comfortable in front of the stove, Francis brought out more wings and a quart of nicely aged sour milk.

*You've got to do something about this situation with Pat,* Scarlett began, pouring herself a glass of milk.

*Hmph,* he retorted. *Why don't you tell her that? *

*Because she won't listen to us! And because you're Tenctonese.*

*So?*

*So have you heard the rumors going around lately? *

*What has Pat been telling people?* he demanded angrily.

*She hasn't said anything. That's part of the problem. Rumor breeds faster on ignorance than on anything else.*

Huh! Not in this case.

*All anyone knows is that the two of you had a falling-out. Would you like to hear a few of the speculations as to why?*

*Not particularly.*

Scarlett ignored his last remark. Holding up one hand, she ticked off the rumors on her fingers as she spoke. *You were lovers and had a quarrel. That's the most innocuous.* A finger went down. *You're trying to force her to sell to Larry, against her principles. He's made no secret of the fact that he's just made you an offer, by the way.* Another finger folded. *You're pressuring her to get involved with some criminal scheme backed by Overseers with whom you're still in league.* Another finger and a sour grimace. *Pat found out what you really did on the Ship and wants nothing more to do with you.* She paused to take a breath. *Shall I go on?*

Francis shook his head. *People believe all this about me?*

*No! I mean, some do, of course. But most of us are just confused and puzzled and grasping at possible explanations.*

*You're all assuming I'm at fault,* he complained petulantly. *No one seems to be blaming Pat for what happened.*

Scarlett picked up a seagull wing and rolled her eyes elaborately. *Come now. What would you think, in our situation? You're the one with the tattoo, not Pat. You may not like it, but you're the one who's going to have to prove himself in any given situation.*

*How many times do I have to prove myself* he demanded. *What do I have to do that I haven't already done? In the name of the Infinitely Holy, what do you all expect from me?!*

Scarlett appeared entirely unruffled by his outburst as she made quick work of the wing. She waved the bare bone for emphasis as she answered his rhetorical question in all seriousness.

*In this case, we expect you to make peace with Pat. Or give us some reason for what's going on. It's tearing our community apart. A few folks are on your side, saying it shows you can't trust a human. Others want to trust you, but this has shaken them. Others are just as sure you've finally shown your true colors and that's why Pat left. People who used to support the Committee to Sink Schooners Landing are talking about pulling out. This is destroying us, Francis, and it's up to you to do something about it.*

Plunking the bone back down onto the plate, she leaned back in her chair and took a hefty swallow of milk, as Francis sat staring sullenly into the fire. Scarlett finally broke the awkward silence with a sigh of elaborate exasperation. Waving one hand in a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the entire room, she asked gently, *How much does all this mean to you, Francis?* 

*What, the Inn?*

*No. The whole thing. This town, this county, the newcomer community. Having a home and being part of something permanent. Being binnaum to all these folks. Is it something you really want, or just a game you've been playing?* 

*It is -- no -- game,* he replied slowly.

*Then you damn well better open your eyes and look around you, because you're about to lose it all. Is that what you want?*

*No,* he admitted.

The silence fell again. A log crumbled in the stove, throwing a shower of bright sparks against the grill. Rain beat down on the roof overhead.

*Pat really hasn't said anything to you?* he asked when he could stand it no longer.

*Not a word. The funny thing is that she doesn't seem angry, just hurt. She thinks she's hiding it from me, but I know she spends a lot of time crying. What did you do to her anyway?* Scarlett held up a hand, forestalling any reply Francis might have been about to make. *No, don't answer. Just settle it, that's all.*

She drained her glass. Without another word, she got up and walked out the door, leaving Francis to sit staring into the flames, brooding.

Despite being exhausted, he didn't sleep at all well that night.

 

Late the following morning, Francis opened the front door of the Inn and flicked on the overhead light. The Office was cold and dank in contrast to the bright winter sunshine outside. A thin layer of dust dulled the shine on the grained cedar surface of the Front Desk itself. The usual cheery scent of coffee brewing in the rec room was conspicuous by its absence.

"I've seen mausoleums that looked more cheerful," he muttered in annoyance.

The office chair behind the desk sat empty, its once-new seat cushion now dented with the imprint of the past season's usage. Brochures of local attractions sprawled out of their racks and onto the floor, subtly disordered by stray drafts of air, or perhaps the feet of field mice seeking a haven from the cold.

He'd have to set some traps. Not only shouldn't the small rodents be allowed to infest the Inn, but they also made tasty snacks.

The calendar on the wall next to the Desk would soon be out of date. Time to find a new one. Reservation calls would begin coming in over the winter and he'd need to be able to see the dates.

Francis slammed his fist onto the surface of the Desk, hard enough to hurt but not to crack the wood. He couldn't run this place without Pat. There were a million and one details that had to be remembered, a multitude of things only she knew how to do. Why, he didn't even know how to make out the ridiculously complicated tax forms that would soon be due, much less handle the rest of the bookkeeping.

If she didn't come back --

Well then, he'd just have to hire staff who did know all these things, wouldn't he? It wasn't impossible.

No, but it would be awfully lonely.

He walked through the doorway and on into the rec room. The plate glass windows that faced the Yaupon River were covered with sheets of plywood, but slivers of light leaked in around the edges.

In the muffled stillness, he kept expecting to hear Pat's voice. Memories crowded close around him, jostling each other for his attention. How optimistic they'd been, on that day only a little more than a year ago when they had first taken over the Inn. The way they had laughed together as they cleaned and rearranged the rec room. The first time he'd built a fire in the old stone fireplace -- and forgotten to open the damper. The times they'd sat here talking long into the night. The cheerful hubbub of guests coming in for a morning cup of coffee and waiting to hear Pat's lecture on the ecology of the saltmarsh, before they followed her along the trails that had been painstakingly cleared through the undergrowth and briars along the river.

Ruefully, he reflected that Pat was the guiding spirit of the Inn. He could keep it running by himself, but it would never be the same. It would be a body without a soul, just another rundown motel struggling to stay in business. He might as well sell out and leave.

*And what will this little group of newcomers be, Bin Treyma, without a binnaum to keep alive the traditions of the past, and to make possible the future? You may earn your living as an innkeeper, but you are called to something more. *

Bitterly, he muttered to the intrusive voice in his mind, *I am called to nothing, Kheersa. I am an imposter and a fraud.*

*You stumble, child. But you will find the way. *

*No. Someone like me isn't needed here. I should leave.*

*A Tenctonese community has a spirit, as truly as this Inn does. You are that spirit. They need you. *

He shook his head in denial.

*The darkness gathers, Bin Treyma, and the silence grows. Will you confront it -- or run away and allow it to triumph?*

*What do you mean?*

The voice did not reply.

*Kheersa! Answer me!*

In the dimness of the shuttered room, there was only quiet. With a strangled curse, Francis walked over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed Scarlett's number.

 

An hour later, he sat facing Pat in the living room of Scarlett's house, clutching a full mug of coffee in his hand. Scarlett and Gypsy had gone out to a movie, leaving the two of them alone. Although Pat had grudgingly agreed to talk to him, judging by her face, he wasn't at all sure it wouldn't be a complete waste of breath. He'd never seen her look so sad and hopeless. Even her tightly curled black hair seemed to droop, if that was possible.

He didn't know where to begin, but Pat solved that problem for him by speaking first.

"Larry's been in touch with me. He still wants to buy the Inn." Her voice was as dead as the expression on her face.

"I know."

"He's offering a very good price."

"I told him I wasn't interested."

"I told him I might be."

Francis almost bolted to his feet in surprise. As it was, he sloshed hot coffee out of the cup and over his hand. Not even bothering to wipe it off, he blurted out, "You can't mean that! Not after the things we've done."

"Francis, I'm tired of all this. I want out. After the way you betrayed me --"

"I betrayed you?!"

No, he wouldn't react like that. He stopped and took a deep breath. Swallowing the words he might have said, he waved a hand in a quick gesture of negation and went on more calmly. "No, forget I said that. Do you seriously mean to say you want to sell out to that bastard?"

"I want us to sell the Inn, yes. I want to get out of this hick town and start over somewhere else. My share of the money would give me enough to do that."

"Damnit, Pat! You know what he'll do to the Inn if he gets his hands on it."

She just shrugged and said listlessly, "So what? I won't be here to watch."

This just wasn't like Pat at all. She shouldn't be reacting this way. There was more to all this than he understood. There had to be.

"What about the Committee to Sink Schooners Landing? What about the protests we had planned? Are you just going to let him win?"

"Francis, I don't really care anymore."

"You can't mean that." But the tone of her voice told him all too clearly that she did. This simply didn't sound like the Pat he knew. Anger, yes. He could understand that. But not the way she was acting now.

For the first time, it occurred to Francis that he might not be the only person for whom buried chunks of the past could rise up like ghosts to haunt the present. For all he knew, someone in Pat's life may once have betrayed her trust, in a situation similar enough to this to make her overly suspicious and touchy. There were things that pushed his buttons and made him react in ways he didn't want. Wasn't it just possible that Pat might have her own buttons? And somehow he had pushed them?

"Pat, please. Can't we talk about this?"

"I have nothing to say to you."

That sounded awfully final. Was there no way to get around it? "Remember after Verna Dixon was killed by the Klan, when you took me to the beach?"

"I remember. So what?"

"What did you tell me to do with my fear, to lessen its hold over me?" he persisted.

"Face it and learn to understand it," she replied unwillingly.

"Well then, what are you afraid of now? Why won't you even let me try to explain?"

"I'm not afraid. I just don't believe you anymore."

"You're afraid I'll lie to you, then?"

"All right. You might put it that way."

She sounded distinctly annoyed now. That was an improvement over the lack of feeling he'd encountered so far.

"Very well then, worst case scenario: I do lie. Then what?"

"I'll find out. And I'll be hurt -- again."

"Best case scenario?"

"You tell the truth. Which I may not like either," she added hastily.

"Is the risk so awful, compared to selling out your principles to Larry Hatfrey?"

No reply.

"Pat, please. All I'm asking is a chance to explain what went on between Bin Thanika and me." This wasn't working. He decided to take the plunge. "Tell you what: if you haven't changed your mind after hearing me out, I agree that we'll sell the Inn."

Well, what good was it to him alone anyway? Without her, it was nothing but an old building.

Something that might almost have been a smile passed over her face and then was gone. "All right, Francis. I am, as we humans say, all ears. Convince me. If you can."

Well, here's your chance. Now what are you going to say? he asked himself nervously.

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps you might have misunderstood what was going on?" he began.

"You expect me to believe that? Hey, my Tenctonese isn't perfect, but it's not that bad!"

"But could you hear everything we said? Mightn't you have missed parts, or heard things wrong?"

"Okay, I suppose that may be possible," she conceded. "But what I did hear was bad enough. When you admitted you killed someone, you showed no more feeling about it than if you had said you'd just swatted a fly. Then you tried to justify what you did by saying it was necessary so you could become an Overseer!"

"I said other things too. I told Thanika I regretted my choices."

"Words, Francis. Just words. There was no conviction behind them."

"Bin Thanika was on the edge of shooting me. By staying as calm and reasonable as I did, I was only trying to defuse his emotional volatility."

"You couldn't know that would work."

"As a child, Thanika was always quick-tempered. Some of his outbursts even overrode the numbing effects of the gas, and that took a considerable amount of emotional energy, believe me! If I had provoked that anger, he would very likely have shot me in a fit of rage. I tried to avoid that, hoping that he wouldn't be able to kill when he wasn't enraged."

"Well, I suppose that could make sense." She shook her head. "I must admit I thought you were crazy for egging him on the way you did near the end. How could you be so sure he wasn't going to kill you?"

"I wasn't. Not until he lowered the gun."

"What would you have done if it hadn't worked?"

"Die."

From the look on her face, it was obvious she wasn't going to buy that. "No one just sits still and let's someone kill them. That's crazy."

"Only if you do it with the wrong person. I knew Thanika and I knew his ethics. Despite his words, I had reason to believe he wouldn't kill me in cold blood."

"He claimed he'd already shot you once. Why wouldn't he do it again?"

"Last time he thought he was keeping me from murdering someone."

Kheersa's face, centered in the sights of his rifle. His finger tightening on the cold metal of the trigger.

"Did he?"

Bemused by the sudden flashback, Francis replied stupidly, "Did he what?"

"Keep you from murdering someone?"

He shifted position in the chair, uncrossing one leg and then crossing the other. He took a long sip of the rapidly cooling coffee that was left in his cup. He didn't really want to answer that, but it seemed he had no choice.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Who?"

"That's not the topic under discussion here."

"Something else you won't tell me about, Francis?" A bitter smile crossed her face. "Something else you expect me to believe you're sorry for?"

"Yes, damnit!"

"Okay. And what if I still don't believe you? What if I think your story about trusting Thanika not to kill you when you provoked him is as full of hogwash as that nonsense about staying cool and calm so he wouldn't get excited and shoot you?" She gave a harsh, derisive bark of laughter. "You're only making things worse, you know. You're still lying to me. I know you too well to believe you'd sit back and let someone shoot you."

Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do, Pat.

*And if she doesn't, whose fault is that? What can she make out of half-truths, except lies?*

*Keep out of this, Kheersa.*

*Tell her, Bin Treyma.*

*No!*

*You were willing to trust Thanika not to shoot you. Are you less willing to trust Pat to believe the truth, if you tell it?*

*Yes. For she can destroy more than just my life.*

*Tell her!*

Pushing the voice away, Francis looked at the human who was his business partner and erstwhile friend. If he couldn't convince her, it was all over. The Inn. The place he had earned, and was still earning, in the community. The sense of home, and friends, and acceptance, despite his past. It would all be gone and he'd be on the road again, with nothing but his money and his painful memories to keep him company through the long and lonely miles.

He knew what that life was like and he didn't want it back again.

"Pat, what I did with Thanika was deliberate and calculated, but it wasn't something I'd ever have thought of by myself. I was only doing to him what someone else once did to me -- and she had far less reason to trust me than I had to trust Thanika."

The remembered sight of Kheersa's dead body sent a wave of guilt washing over him. For a moment, he thought he might throw up. Licking his lips with a tongue gone suddenly as dry as dust, he forced himself to continue.

"I may have sounded calm and cold to you, but I was scared and bleeding inside."

Pat held up a hand. "Wait just a minute. Who's this 'someone else' you mentioned? This is the second time you've referred to something that I know nothing about. Maybe if I understood about that, I might understand better what went on between you and Thanika."

"You don't want to know," he replied quickly. Pat frowned and turned her head away.

*Tell her, Treyma. Until you can face your past, you will not be able to face your future. *

With a shudder of aversion, Francis conceded the argument to the voice in his head. "All right, if there's a chance it may make you believe me --" he began hesitantly.

Pat nodded. He thought he could see a flicker of interest in those jet-black eyes that hadn't been there before.

"You've asked me at least once about how and why I finally dissociated myself from the Overseers, after working for them on earth. It's a long story. Will you listen to it?"

"Does it have anything to do with what we've been talking about?"

"Yes.

"Then I'll listen."

"Good." Now that he'd decided, he didn't know how to start. He rose to his feet, heading for the kitchen. "Want a refill on your coffee?"

"All right."

Returning with the coffeepot, he poured the dark liquid into her cup, then refilled his own, taking his time fiddling with the sugar bowl on the side table.

You're stalling, Francis. Get it over with, he told himself as he resumed his seat. You gambled your life on Thanika's sense of ethics. Now gamble everything on Pat's sense of truth.

"Bear with me if I kind of wander around, okay? This isn't easy."

Pat nodded.

"This is how it was," he began.

 

After surviving the crash and those first difficult days in the desert, I spent most of the quarantine period studying earth and its cultures, trying to make sense of where we had ended up. Although I had a few vague ideas about starting a new life, the other newcomers in quarantine with me took one look at my wrist and avoided me like the plague. One of the braver ones even tried to kill me. Obviously, the attempt wasn't successful, but it was enough to convince me that no one would let me forget what I was.

Then, after we were released, Piedra Frelani wasted no time getting in touch with me.

"Does Piedra have a human name?" Pat interrupted curiously.

Francis smiled. "Oh yes. The name they gave her is Glory Hallelujah. But never call her that to her face, if you want to live."

Much to his surprise, Pat chuckled.

"Now," Francis went on, "as I was saying --" 

Piedra promised money and power if I'd stick with her. I saw my alternatives very clearly in the eyes of every Tenctonese who caught sight of my tattoo, so I agreed to her proposal.

There isn't much to tell about those years that you don't already know. I was essentially a high-priced whore, catalyzing children for other Overseers or for any Tenctonese couples who were willing to pay the price Piedra demanded.

Why would anyone want me? Lots of reasons. The Order would have nothing to do with Overseers. Besides, the Overseers preferred one of their own, so to speak. Sometimes they didn't even want to have children, but had some fairly perverse ideas for things they thought might be fun. Piedra welcomed those kinds of assignments, since they paid more.

Other than the Overseers, there were also some newcomers who didn't want to bother with the ethics and ceremonies that went along with dealing with the Order. There were other binnaums available for this purpose, of course, but none of them were Kleezantsun#. I'm ashamed to say some of my clients found it amusing to hire one of the Overseers to be binnaum to their children. I never have been able to figure out why.

Anyway, the work was mostly easy, the percentage I got allowed me to live in luxury, and I didn't have to deal with the hatred of ordinary Tenctonese. In fact, I didn't have to deal with them at all.

I knew very well that I was only a sideline to Piedra and her friends. In a little over a year, they had a number of illicit businesses running and had integrated themselves very smoothly into the existing criminal underground. Since Piedra was fond of bragging, she told me all about it. Some of her activities made me uneasy, but I never had the courage to say anything. Piedra made it very clear that I wouldn't live very long if I tried to quit her organization.

Then came the winter day a year and a half after the Ship landed, when I was summoned into her office unexpectedly.

She sat behind her desk, leaning forward with her chin propped on one hand, studying me intently as I took a seat. I didn't like the look in her eyes.

I've never described her, have I? I suppose you humans wouldn't consider her pretty. She was tall and what you would call heavyset, but her face had a sharpness to it that was set off perfectly by the jagged speckles that covered her head in an intricate and intriguing pattern, so different from the usual more regular pattern found on most of our females. She had an athlete's grace and strength, combined with an overall bearing that told you she didn't take anything from anybody.

Tapping a carefully manicured fingernail on a thick file folder, she smiled at me. *Got a little job for you, Treyma.*

Something in her voice put me on the alert. *Oh? What is it?* I asked noncommittally.

*Not the usual thing at all.* She paused for effect. *Have you ever heard of a Tenctonese novelist named Kheersa Pentaleri?*

*Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I believe I read her book. It was an adventure set on Tencton. Quite interesting, actually. So realistic I could almost believe she'd really been there.*

*She had been there. Kheersa Pentaleri is one of the Elders. She was born on Tencton.*

*So what's the problem?*

*We've been keeping a close eye on her ever since we found out that she's been doing a lot of research for her next book.* Piedra tapped the file folder lying in the center of her desk. *Dangerous research.*

*So some old woman writes another novel about the good old days on the home world. So what?*

*Her next novel isn't going to be about Tencton. It's going to be about the Overseers and what they're doing on earth right now.*

I didn't bother to ask Piedra how she had found out about this. She had her sources, and they were remarkably reliable.

*It's only fiction,* I objected. *It can't hurt us.*

*Come now, let's not be naive. If the humans read it, they may believe it. They may start taking us seriously and hunting for us.*

I didn't like the way the conversation was going. I knew Piedra too well to think she had called me in to talk about her taste in reading material. *The humans write lots of novels about their own criminal underground. That famous one -- what was it called? "The Godmother"? -- never did any harm to the Mafia.*

Piedra dismissed my objection with a wave of her hand, the black tattoo on her wrist set off brilliantly by the tight-fitting diamond bracelets she wore on either side of it.

*We Overseers survive by staying out of sight. A lot of Tenctonese don't remember clearly that we exist, and those who do would rather pretend we didn't. We can't afford this sort of publicity.* The corners of Piedra's lips quirked upwards into the slight smile that always meant trouble. *I want you to kill this bothersome old woman.*

I just barely managed to choke back a laugh as I realized she was serious.

*I'm not a hitman,* I protested. *Send someone else.*

*No, Treyma, I think not. You've had it too easy lately. You've gotten soft. I want you to do this to prove you're still one of us. Also, it would raise the price of your services, if word gets out that you disposed of this -- nuisance -- for us.*

It would also give Piedra one more thing to hold over my head if I were ever seriously tempted to leave her employ, but I knew better than to say that. Most of what I had done thus far on earth hadn't been strictly illegal, but murder would be another matter entirely.

Yes, Pat, I had occasionally been involved in the death of people while we were on the Ship. I would be lying if I denied that, and I promised not to lie. But, without wanting to exonerate the Kleezantsun# in any way, I must point out that we weren't there primarily to exterminate our cargo. That wouldn't have been, as you humans put it, cost effective. The ones who died were usually troublemakers, killed to set an example to the others.

But back to what I was saying. 

Piedra held out the file folder. *Here's all the information I have on Kheersa Pentaleri. Read it. Then come back when you can tell me the file is closed for good.*

*But --* I started to object.

*What's the matter? Afraid of an old woman?* Her mocking smile faded into something far more sinister. *Do it, Treyma,* she said coldly.

I left without any further argument.

What Piedra hadn't told me was that she would send one of her regular hitmen to follow me. If I failed to carry out my orders, he was to eliminate me along with the annoying novelist. I only discovered that later on.

I studied the file. With the active phase of her research concluded, the Elder had retired to a small cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains east of Sacramento to do the actual writing of the novel. Her granddaughter, Liett Pentaleri, was living there with her. I remember hoping I wouldn't have to kill the granddaughter also. It wasn't that I particularly objected to killing someone, only that it would mean the waste of an extra life.

I got myself a rifle and a Casull pistol -- What? You've never heard of a Casull pistol? It's a high-powered, double-barreled handgun meant for use against newcomers.

Thus equipped, I started out up the coast and then eastward into the mountains. I knew little about the wilderness and even less about driving in snow and ice, but I managed all right until the very end of the trip. It was late afternoon and I had almost reached the turnoff to where Kheersa's cabin was supposed to be when my car skidded off the road into a snow-filled ditch. Unable to get it out, I left the car and started hiking on down the road.

It was snowing rather hard by then, but I thought little of it.

As I trudged along, I heard women's voices somewhere off to the side of the road, so I went over to see what was going on.

At the bottom of a steep slope, two figures were loading wood onto a sled. On the off chance one of them might be my intended victim, I looked through the telescopic sight of my rifle. 

One was a young woman. No good. I moved on to the next. The other was indeed Kheersa Pentaleri, easily recognizable from the photos in her file despite the heavy winter clothes she wore.

Congratulating myself on my luck, I was about to pull the trigger when one foot slipped sideways on a patch of ice. At almost the same moment, a bullet slammed into my right shoulder. The impact knocked me further off balance and I toppled over the edge of the ravine. I must have hit my head on something as I fell, because the next thing I remember, I was lying on a couch, my shoulder bandaged and my arm bound across my chest. The back of my head hurt, but not nearly as badly as my shoulder did.

At the time, of course, I had no idea who had shot me. The other night, Thanika claimed that it was his doing, and it may well have been. I have no reason to doubt his word.

I tried to get up, but didn't make it. That drew the attention of the old woman, who sat in a rocking chair with her feet propped up in front of a woodstove. Her face was wrinkled and lined with age, but her dark eyes were bright and alert. The pattern of small but intricately shaped speckles on her head gave her a youthful appearance despite her years.

*Ah, our visitor is awake. How do you feel?* she asked.

I ignored her question. *Where's my rifle, and my pistol?*

*I don't know anything about a rifle. If you had one, you must have dropped it when you fell. The handgun is hanging over by the door in its shoulder holster.*

*Give it to me,* I demanded uneasily. 

*We do not use weapons in this house.* 

*Give it to me or I'll get up and get it myself. Whoever shot me is still out there, and he still has his gun.*

She only shrugged. *If you think you can stand up on your own, go get it. But I strongly advise you not to. If you move around too much, your shoulder will start bleeding again. That's a messy wound and you've lost enough blood for one day as it is.*

I glanced down at the bandages. Kheersa spoke the truth. The dressing was already tinged pink with blood. I reached over to touch it, but even that slight amount of pressure was intolerable. It couldn't be a simple gunshot wound. Bones had to be broken, most likely my shoulder blade. I tried to move my arm slightly. The resulting pain made me revise my estimate: not just broken, shattered.

*Well, then, why haven't you gotten me to a hospital, if I'm in such bad shape?* I snapped irritably. I didn't like her manner and the pain was already getting to me.

*There's a blizzard raging outside, in case you hadn't noticed. Not even my jeep could get us anywhere in that. The phone lines are down, so we can't call for help. We'll be lucky if we don't lose the electricity before the storm is over. I'm afraid you're stuck here until it lets up.*

She settled back into her rocking chair, studying me and not looking at all happy at what she saw. *Mind telling me what you were doing out here all by yourself? Didn't you hear the storm warnings?*

*I didn't have the radio on. I was going to a hunting lodge, but lost my way,* I improvised. *The car got stuck. I heard your voices and hoped you might be able to help. I was about to holler down to you when someone shot me.*

*You always go hunting just before a blizzard? And you always carry a Casull pistol with you?* she asked skeptically. I didn't know how to answer that. *Perhaps you were shot by another hunter, eh?*

That sounded good. *Maybe.*

*If so, why was your first thought for your weapons? And why do you believe you're still in danger from that hunter, Bin Treyma?*

I nearly fell off the couch in surprise. She knew who I was. This was not good at all. It was only then that I realized she had not bothered to introduce herself. Was she assuming I already knew who she was also?

Kheersa smiled at my evident consternation. *Oh yes, I recognize you. I saw you many times on the Ship. Do you think I missed your notorious presence while I was researching the surviving Overseers here on earth?*

I was saved from having to reply by her granddaughter's entrance into the room, carrying two soup mugs. With a speckle pattern very similar to Kheersa's and exquisitely shaped ear canals, Liett Pentaleri was a strikingly beautiful young woman.

After serving the Elder, she set the remaining mug on the coffee table in front of the couch. She only glanced at me once, but if looks could kill, I'd have been dead.

*Can you manage that,* Kheersa asked me, *or do you need help?*

I regarded the mug without enthusiasm. Judging by the smell, it was a mixture of beef blood and orange juice, not my favorite beverage. However, I had obviously lost a lot of blood and could use the liquid.

*If you would prop me up a little higher and give me the mug, I can handle it.* Actually, I didn't want to move even that much, but I'd be damned if I'd ask my potential victim to feed me.

*Liett, get another pillow and give our guest a hand, would you?* Kheersa requested.

The granddaughter looked at me again, her blue eyes as cold as the snow outside. *I'd sooner stick my hand in the ocean as lay a finger on him,* she stated.

*Child, he's badly hurt. Where is your compassion?*

*There is no compassion for the Kleezantsun#.* Liett turned away, going over to the woodstove and putting a fresh log into the firebox.

Kheersa sighed. She rose stiffly from her chair, helped me pull myself more nearly into an upright position and tucked another pillow behind my back before placing the mug in my uninjured left hand.

*Liett, where are the pills I asked you to bring?* Kheersa asked.

*Why waste our few medicines on him?* she replied scornfully, her back still turned to us.

*Liett --* the Elder warned.

The girl got up and came over to me, taking two small bottles out of a pocket in her sweatshirt jacket. Grudgingly, she offered me a capsule from each bottle. *This is a broad-spectrum antibiotic,* she said, indicating the larger of the two, *and this is a painkiller.* Shaking the second bottle to produce a rather anemic rattling sound, she announced smugly, *We haven't got many of these left.*

Ignoring her scorn, I popped both pills in my mouth and gulped them down.

Liett still stood watching me. *If I'd had my way, I'd have shot you with your own gun the minute grandmother told me who you were. If she weren't here, you'd be dead, Overseer.* Eyes flashing, she stalked back to the woodstove, extending her hands towards the warmth.

Once again settled in her rocking chair near the stove, Kheersa harrumphed loudly. *You must forgive my granddaughter, Bin Treyma. She saw her parents killed by the Overseers, so she bears little love for you.*

That was the understatement of the year, I decided. Since one of Liett's murdered parents had to have been Kheersa's child, I wondered why the old woman hadn't killed me herself.

Things were quiet for a while as I sipped liquid from the mug. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire in the stove, the swish of snow falling outside, and the moaning of the wind. Then Liett turned away from the stove, announcing abruptly, *I don't want to be in the presence of this creature any longer. I'm going to bed.*

So saying, she strode out of the room through a wooden door which must have led to her bedroom. There was one more door along the same wall, so I assumed that was Kheersa's.

Sighing, the old woman picked up the two mugs and took them out into the kitchen. I heard water running.

When she came back into the room, she poked up the fire and added several chunks of wood. She stood up and stretched. *It's time I retired also, Bin Treyma. Spending the day hauling wood makes one remarkably tired, at my age.* She took a couple of woolen blankets from a chest by the wall, shaking them out before bringing them over and covering me carefully. *I hope these will keep you warm enough. The bathroom is off the kitchen. Would you like help getting there before I go to bed?*

I shook my head. *I'll manage, if I find it necessary.*

*Very well. I left a light on in the kitchen for you.*

With no further ado, she turned off the rest of the lights and I was left alone. For a few minutes, I heard rustling movements and footsteps in the bedroom, then even that stopped.

I almost laughed at my situation. Here I was, not twenty paces from where my pistol hung on the wall, with my potential victim asleep and at my mercy. The old fool had tucked me in as if I were as harmless as a child, quite oblivious to her danger. They couldn't have made it easier for me if they'd tried. All I had to do was stand up and get my gun, and this distasteful job could be over and done with.

A sudden gust of wind shook the door and pelted the window with frozen snow. Okay, so maybe there was a bit of a problem after all. If I killed the two women, I'd be trapped here. With my right arm useless, I couldn't drive their jeep in this kind of weather, even if the snow stopped right now, which it seemed to have no intention of doing.

I considered killing Kheersa but keeping the girl alive until she could drive me to safety, but I wasn't sure I could control Liett for the length of time that might be necessary. I knew my wounded shoulder made me vulnerable. If I fanned her hatred into flame, I might not be able to avoid being consumed in the resulting blaze.

I'd just have to see what tomorrow would bring. I tried to settle myself down comfortably on the couch, but sleep wouldn't come. My shoulder hurt too much despite the pain pill.

I managed to doze off now and then, but it was a long night. Sometime during the night, the light in the kitchen blinked a few times and went out. I figured that was it for the electricity. That didn't make me rest any easier.

By the following morning, the storm was worse and so was I. I could barely think straight for the agony in my shoulder. Even so, when Kheersa offered me a cup of coffee from the kettle steaming on the stove and a pill from each of the bottles, I took the painkiller with misgiving, all too aware of how few were left.

The hot liquid revived me a bit. With the woodstove blazing away, the room was comfortably warm despite the freezing temperatures outside.

Liett appeared from her bedroom. Pulling on boots and a heavy parka, she opened the door on snow at least four feet deep and plunged out into the howling storm. Shortly she reappeared with an armload of wood, which she laid out to dry in the warmth surrounding the stove. By the time she had made two more trips, she was covered with snow from head to foot.

*That should hold us for a while,* Kheersa remarked cheerfully as the girl peeled off her outerwear and hung everything by the door to drip.

*There's plenty more in the shed.*

*Good. Heat will be no problem, then. And we've got plenty of candles for light.*

Kheersa settled back in her rocking chair. Pulling a bundle of multi-colored fabric out of a bag that lay next to her on the floor, she began performing some strange manipulations with two long, pointed wands. Liett sat in front of a window in the far corner of the room and began to read.

*So, what do we do now?* I asked testily.

*I don't know about you, but I plan to get some knitting done,* the old woman replied equably.

Trying to keep my mind off my pain, I watched her work on the fabric.

*Seems to me it would be easier to just buy a blanket,* I said at last, bored.

*Oh, certainly. But not as enjoyable.*

*Foolish waste of time,* I muttered.

The Elder just smiled. *You have something better to do? If the electricity were on, I could work on my latest novel. I have a computer in my bedroom. Spending time with you has given me some ideas. Perhaps I'll invent a character based on you, Bin Treyma. Would you like that?*

*Celine! No!* 

That's all Piedra would have to see. Then I remembered Piedra would never read such a book because Kheersa wasn't going to live long enough to write it.

The old woman lowered her knitting. *Why not? I think you'd make an interesting character. I'm just not quite sure how I should present someone like you.*

It was obvious she was teasing me now. *Just make me the bad guy and be done with it,* I replied angrily. *That's what everyone always does with Overseers, isn't it?*

*Well, I don't know. I rather think there might be more to it than that but --*

Kheersa's musings were interrupted by the crash of a chair to the floor as Liett bolted to her feet. She squatted down in front of me, her blue eyes blazing.

*Why?* she demanded. *Why did you join them? How could anyone, much less a binnaum, choose such a thing?*

I started to shrug, then thought better of it when I realized what that would do to my shoulder. What could this girl possibly know of such things? *I had the chance to have power, and I took it. Most others didn't have that choice. I did. It's as simple as that.*

Of course, it wasn't. But I wasn't going to tell her that.

She looked as if she were debating spitting on me, if she knew of that human gesture of contempt. I didn't particularly care. What was she to me anyway? Just one more of the cargo. It didn't matter what one of them thought of me.

She just squatted there, glaring. Combined with the situation and my pain, her attitude was getting on my nerves. I decided to see if I could put a hole in her self-righteous hatred.

*Look, did you like being a slave?* I asked her.

*That's a stupid question, even for one of you. Of course I didn't. What's that got to do with anything? *

*If you had to choose between being a master or being a slave, which would you choose?*

She didn't think about it for very long, but I saw her eyes slide sideways to her grandmother before she answered defiantly, *I've had enough of being a slave.*

*In that case, you'd have made a good Overseer,* I replied offhandedly.

I knew my remark would anger her, but I didn't think it would anger her as much as it did. Before I had a chance to react, she slammed her fist into my bandaged shoulder.

I screamed, convulsing with agony and clutching at my arm with my good hand. In all the years since my early experience with Piedra, I hadn't been hurt more than superficially. I wasn't used to this. It brought back emotions I thought I had forgotten.

I looked up, anticipating another blow. Kheersa held Liett's wrist.

*Let me go! I'm sick of being a helpless victim,* the girl rasped. *This time I have the upper hand and I'm going to use it.*

*Remember the Teachings, child,* Kheersa said firmly. *Weakness in and of itself is no virtue, but strength wrongly used is a vice. Strength controlled and properly used is the positive good.* 

*I don't care about that! I won't be a slave any longer, no matter what you say!*

*If the only possible choice is to be a master or to be a slave, the right thing is to be a slave,* the Elder pointed out. *But neither is necessary. We have other choices now.*

*My choice is to destroy him! Why do you defend this abomination?*

*I don't. I only seek to prevent you from becoming the same sort of abomination you claim to despise.*

Liett finally stopped trying to pull free from the old woman's grip and relaxed. When Kheersa let her go, she glared at me viciously and then strode over to the door.

*I'm going outside to check my snares. Perhaps there'll be some fresh meat for us.* 

*In this blizzard?*

Kheersa's objection didn't stop the girl from pulling on her boots. *If I stay in here any longer with him, I'll explode.*

The old woman got up from her chair and walked over to her grandchild. Touching her fingers to the angry young woman's temple, she said softly, *Go then, my dear. But be careful you don't get lost.*

Liett hesitated a moment, then reached out her own hand in return. *Don't worry. I won't go too far.*

After Liett had pulled the door closed behind her, Kheersa returned to her rocking chair. Shaking her head, she took up her knitting once again. With all her attention apparently on the clicking needles, she asked me casually, *So, Bin Treyma, why haven't you tried to kill me yet?*

*What are you talking about, old woman?* 

*I may be old, but I'm not stupid. Did you really think I believed that story about your going hunting? For one thing, you brought the wrong weapons for shooting game. No one else who lives out here could be of the slightest interest to Piedra Frelani. She must have found out about my latest literary effort and sent you after me. Perhaps I should be thankful she chose such an inept assassin.*

*Inept?* I said stupidly while trying to assimilate the idea that she knew about Piedra's involvement in this.

Kheersa laughed. *Well, what else would you call it? I'm still alive, aren't I?*

This was more than I intended to take.

*Not for long,* I snarled, pushing myself up from the couch and lurching over to where my pistol hung on the wall. By the time I pulled it out of the shoulder holster, my head was spinning and my knees threatened to collapse. I staggered back and almost fell onto the sofa, the broken bones grating painfully in my shoulder with each movement.

*I'll show you,* I gasped, trying to aim the gun with my left hand. It took several seconds for me to recover sufficient strength to keep the muzzle steady enough to have even a chance of hitting her.

Kheersa shook her head. In the tone she might have used on a naughty child, she said, *Would you shoot an old woman, Bin Treyma? Have you learned nothing since coming to this new world?*

This was not the sort of reaction I expected. She was supposed to be terrified. Any other Tenctonese would have been. I was Kleezantsun#, wasn't I? What was going on here?

*I could kill you,* I said in my most menacing tone.

*Well, perhaps you could. But will you?* The dark eyes locked on mine. *I say you will not, Bin Treyma. I say there is more in your hearts than even you may know. I say you will not kill someone in cold blood.*

Something deep within me flinched from that relentless gaze, but I could not look away.

*Do you want to die?* I demanded, trying to deny what she had said.

*No, of course not. But neither do I fear death overmuch.*

She stood up and walked closer to me, until she was almost touching the muzzle of my pistol. At first I thought she intended to take the gun away, but she made no move to do so. It wouldn't have been difficult. I was so weak from the pain that it would have been an effort just to pull the trigger.

*Look,* she said, *I'm making it easier for you. Even in your condition, you can't possibly miss at this distance.*

A part of me said to do it, but another part hesitated. Where was the honor in slaughtering a helpless person?

But where had that idea come from? I hadn't thought of honor for many years now. That concept had died when Piedra had broken my spirit on that long ago day on the Ship. I had no honor, only pride.

And yet my finger stubbornly refused to tighten on the trigger, and the gun shook uncontrollably in my trembling hand. I couldn't blame the pain, not really. There was something else stopping me.

I gave up and lowered the gun into my lap, telling myself it was just the agony in my shoulder that had kept me from firing, nothing more.

Kheersa sat down on the coffee table so her face was level with mine. *Can't quite bring yourself to do it? * she asked. If her face had echoed the gentle mocking of her words, I might yet have killed her then and there. *Piedra will not be pleased.*

*Piedra can go to --* I stopped myself abruptly. Piedra was my friend and my mentor -- wasn't she?

*What's the matter? Why didn't you shoot me?* Kheersa persisted.

*I -- thought better of it,* I replied, trying for assurance. *You and Liett are the only ones who can get me to the hospital. It would be suicide for me to kill you.*

*Is that the only reason? Really?*

*Yes,* I insisted fiercely.

What was she trying to do to me? Of course it was the only reason. Why else would I have let her live? And yet, the thought of killing her still made me uneasy.

Kheersa sighed heavily. *Do you owe that much to Piedra Frelani? Aren't you tired of it, Treyma? Wouldn't you like to get away from her and live your own life?*

*It's too late for that. I couldn't undo the past, even if I wanted to.* What was I saying? The words had come unbidden to my lips, drawn by the tenderness in the Elder's eyes.

*The past is over,* she stated firmly. *What are you now, today? And what do you wish to be tomorrow? That is all that truly matters.*

*Nice words, but I can't quit. If I even tried, they'd kill me. I have no choice.* 

That at least was true. Buy why did it sound like such a lame excuse?

*There's always a choice. Sometimes it means death, but there's always a choice.*

I shook my head. *No. I decided a long time ago, and there's no way I can undo that.* I gestured impatiently at the tattoo on my right wrist, just visible at the edge of the bandage that held my arm to my chest. *I'll always be one of the Kleezantsun#.*

*Always is not a word to be used by mortals, Bin Treyma. You are what you choose to be, not what you have been. The tattoo on your wrist isn't important. Your soul is what matters.*

Then she did something totally unexpected. She reached out one hand, fingers curled under, and touched my temple.

I recoiled automatically, but I was just a bit too slow to entirely escape the sense of concern and caring Kheersa wished to impart to me.

No one had touched me like that since -- since when? Before Piedra, surely. Yes, before Piedra. My teacher, Bin Dalvi, the last time I had seen him before the Overseers came and took me away. I shivered, not wanting to remember that.

Kheersa rose stiffly to her feet. *Just think about what I said. All right?*

As it turned out, I had little time to think about anything. By nightfall, I was delirious with fever, barely conscious of anything except how badly my shoulder hurt. I can't remember anything much about the next day and night at all, so I must have been pretty well out of it.

The next thing I recall is waking up with a cold wind on my face and sunlight pouring in through the open door of the cabin. Wrapped in a heavy coat, Kheersa was busily stomping a snowdrift down to a manageable height. I heard a car engine running somewhere outside.

Weak and woozy, I used the back of the couch to pull myself up into a sitting position. No sooner had I done so than the world began spinning around. I leaned my head forward and waited for the dizziness to pass.

*Oh, good,* Kheersa remarked as she came inside. *You're awake. That will make it easier for us to get you out into the jeep.*

*Jeep?*

*Yes. The storm stopped yesterday and the snow's melting. We're going to try to get you to the hospital before that shoulder gets even worse than it is.*

I didn't need her words to tell me my wound was infected. I could tell from the throbbing tightness overlying the now familiar pain that my arm was badly swollen. Although I didn't look forward to the long ride bouncing over a snowy road, I knew I needed medical care and I needed it soon, if I was to keep my arm, not to mention my life.

*Do you think you can walk?* Kheersa asked.

I looked at the endless distance separating me from the door. *Not without help.*

*I'll call Liett. She's warming up the car.*

When the girl came into the room, she said nothing, but she bent to fit under my left shoulder and helped me hoist myself to my feet. Fighting waves of dizziness, I shuffled clumsily across the room, while Kheersa gathered the blankets off the couch and draped them over my shoulders.

I halted where my pistol hung on a peg next to the door. With most of my weight on Liett and no way to let go without falling, I was forced to appeal to Kheersa to give me the gun.

The Elder frowned. *You have no need for such a weapon,* she objected.

*Please, Kheersa. I have enemies and one never knows what may happen. Someone put this bullet through my shoulder. That someone may still be out there.*

*All through the blizzard?* she asked skeptically.

I lifted my head until our eyes met. *I'm not planning to harm you or Liett, if that's what you're worried about,* I said in the most sincere tone I could manage. It might or might not have been a lie, but I wanted it to sound true. All I really cared about at that point was getting to a hospital.

*You're not going to believe him, are you, grandmother?* the girl objected.

*Yes, I think I am.*

Kheersa took down the gun in its shoulder holster. *I'll carry this out to the car. You two get a move on.*

I managed to hobble through the wet snow and into the back seat of the car without collapsing. Liett saw her grandmother safely ensconced in the passenger's seat before climbing into the driver's side herself.

I laid down across the seat as comfortably as I could, using the blankets to prop myself into a semi-upright position. Without my having to ask, Kheersa handed the pistol back to me. With my good arm, I cradled it against my chest, holster and all. It didn't make me feel a whole lot better, but it sure made me feel less helpless. I laid back, trying to relax while fighting off the weariness that was doing its best to claim me.

We had gone perhaps a mile when the car slowed and I heard Liett's voice, sounding as if it came from far away. *Look at that truck! I wonder if there's someone in it?*

*I don't see anyone.*

*Do you think we should stop? We might get stuck.*

The conversation finally penetrated my dull mind. A truck? Way out here? And they didn't recognize it as belonging to one of their few neighbors?

Suddenly alert, I sat up, leaning between the two front seats to see what was going on. The glare of the sun on white fields of snow momentarily blinded me, but when my eyes adjusted, I could make out a blue Toyota truck, its front end buried in the drift at the bottom of a ditch next to the road. It was a fair distance ahead of us, but Liett had begun braking cautiously, allowing herself plenty of time to come to a gradual stop.

We were still at least I00 yards away when a Tenctonese man stepped into sight around the tailgate of the truck. I recognized him instantly and my blood ran cold.

*Liett, don't stop!!* I yelled.

The man waved one arm as if to flag us down. Torn between my frantic shout and her previous intention, the girl hesitated.

*I know him! He's a killer, a hired assassin! Keep driving!*

Indeed, I knew him all too well. He was Ament Sisson, Piedra's favorite hitman. There was no possible reason for his presence here but one.

Liett stepped on the gas. For a hearts-stopping moment, the wheels spun on the slippery snow without catching. Then the car began gathering speed.

Seeing this, Sisson grabbed up an AK47 automatic rifle that had been concealed behind the rear of the truck and stepped out into the middle of the road. I fumbled desperately for my pistol, but I wasn't used to using my left hand. Time seemed to slow down as the barrel of his weapon lifted and tracked our oncoming vehicle. For only the briefest of instants, his eyes met mine and I knew Kheersa was not his only target. I also knew I was about to die.

Then our car slid sideways, fishtailing wildly. A spray of bullets from the automatic rifle shattered nothing but the snow-covered morning silence.

As Liett regained control of the car, I raised my gun, preparing to fire through the front window. Sisson still stood in the middle of the road, his AK47 once again bearing on us.

*Run him down!* I screamed to Liett, just as Kheersa turned and saw the gun I held. Her hand moved as if to stop me. As she turned, she leaned in towards Liett, blocking my shot.

I heard the stutter of the semi-automatic and saw Kheersa jerk as the bullets hit her. The windshield of the car shattered and collapsed. Then we were on top of our assailant.

At the last moment, the car swerved, skidding past Sisson and missing him by inches. I spun around, firing through the back window. With little chance to aim, I just kept shooting until the gun was empty, hoping to prevent him from firing at us again. I have no idea if any of my bullets found its target.

Liett wanted to stop and attend her grandmother as soon as we had rounded the next curve, but, not knowing if Sisson would be coming after us, I told her to keep going. Blood ran down the girl's cheek from a cut, but she appeared otherwise unhurt.

I pulled the lever that reclined Kheersa's seat. Tearing her coat open, I tried vainly to stop the bleeding by folding up her scarf and pressing it tightly over her wounds. I knew there was little hope, this far from a hospital. One of the bullets had hit her left heart, puncturing the lung at the same time. She was losing too much blood.

I felt the bones grating in my shoulder with all this activity, but the emergency situation kept the full extent of the pain from registering. I didn't want this woman to die. She had shaken the foundations of my life with her words. I had to save her.

But I knew that was impossible. And besides, I was the one who was supposed to kill her, wasn't I?

It was only then that it dawned on me that Sisson wouldn't have been here unless Piedra had sent him. She hadn't trusted me to do the job. Did he have orders to kill me if I didn't do it? Or had I been intended as a victim all along? Someone had certainly shot me before I had even attempted to kill Kheersa. I saw no reason to think it hadn't been Sisson. And if it was Sisson's doing, the orders had to have come from Piedra.

Piedra had betrayed me. Well, was that so surprising? What loyalty did she have except to herself? But why would she want me dead? I'd had no intention of disobeying her orders. I still intended to kill Kheersa the moment I reached safety, didn't I?

Or did I? 

Feeling the old woman's lifeblood soaking through the scarf and running down over my fingers, I remembered another time and another place. Dalvi's blood had welled up around the double-bladed knife I had plunged into his hearts. Then, I had told myself I felt nothing for him, for love was a weakness that I had banished from my mind in the attempt to become one of the Chosen.

Now, after all those years, I was forced to admit that love doesn't die so easily, and truth, although fiercely repressed and perverted, still lives on.

I finally realized I was not about to kill Kheersa Pentaleri, nor had I had any intention of doing so for some time now. But it was too late. Someone else had done the job for me.

Liett sobbed steadily as she sped down the road at a reckless speed.

*Slow down, child,* Kheersa whispered.*You'll kill us all.*

The car slowed, but Liett's sobs didn't. 

The old woman's hand came up to grasp my blood-soaked wrist. *It's all right,* she said. *I've been prepared to die ever since we found you in the snow, but I'm glad it wasn't your doing. I was sure I saw something in you besides what you seem to think you are.*

I closed my eyes briefly. *Kheersa, you were right. Nothing is for always. I can't get rid of the tattoo, but I don't have to be Kleezantsun# unless I choose to be. And I choose not to be,* I whispered to the dying woman.

Weakly, she lifted her hand from my wrist and brought it up to my temple. This time I didn't pull away, although I had to make a deliberate effort not to.

Much to my surprise, the thought behind that touch was not merely caring, but a sense of gratitude, as if she had been a bit uncertain about some long-held values, but had just been proven right after all.

*You won't get rid of me this easily, Bin Treyma,* she whispered faintly. *I'll be with you until you don't need me anymore.*

Then her hand fell to her side and her breath went out of her in a long sigh. Beneath my hand, her hearts stopped pumping.

*Grandmother --?* Liett asked fearfully.*

*She's dead,* I forced myself to reply. The blackness I'd been holding at bay finally claimed me and I collapsed on the back seat, unconscious for the rest of that wild ride.

 

Francis lapsed into silence, staring at the broken pieces of a shattered coffee mug clutched in his hand. When had he done that?

Depositing the ceramic shards on the table beside him, he blotted absently at the trickle of blood running from his palm with a paper napkin.

"What happened next?" Pat prompted.

"Huh?' he replied numbly.

"What did you do after that?"

"It's not important."

"I want to know how you got from there to here," she insisted stubbornly.

"Very well." Francis shrugged and then went on with his tale.

 

Later on I learned that Liett had taken me to a hospital in Sacramento, where they had done their best to stabilize me. Lacking facilities for treating newcomers, they sent me on to a hospital in Los Angeles, where the doctors put me together again as best they could. They originally thought I'd never use my right arm again, it was that bad. I managed to prove them wrong.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. When I came to in the recovery room, I had no way of knowing all this. I had barely gotten my wits together enough to be transferred into a regular room when two humans and a newcomer in a police uniform came to talk to me.

The newcomer cop was stationed by the door as a guard, while the two detectives showed me their badges and began asking questions.

Even groggy as I was, I knew I wasn't under arrest because they didn't read me my rights. They seemed only to want information about Kheersa's death, since they questioned me as if I were an important witness, not a criminal. I told them exactly how the Elder had been shot, except that I denied any knowledge of who the gunman had been. It seems both he and his truck had been long gone by the time the police went to investigate.

By the time they were satisfied on that point and had backed up to ask what I was doing at Kheersa's cabin in the first place, I decided I had nothing to lose by telling them I had only been out hunting, etcetera.

The unknown factor in all this was what Liett had already told them. They had to have gotten her statement by now, but I had no idea what she might have said. However, near the beginning of my narrative, one of the detectives nodded. Consulting a pad in his hand, he mumbled, "Uh-huh. Checks with what we've got so far."

I concluded from this that Liett, for some reason of her own, hadn't told them all she knew about me. Gaining confidence, I played my part of innocent bystander to the hilt.

Evidently satisfied, the detectives folded up their notebooks and headed for the door.

Instead of following the humans out, the newcomer cop stood staring silently at me for several seconds. With no choice but to notice him, I got the uncomfortable feeling that I had seen him somewhere before. But where? He somewhat resembled one of the slaves I recalled seeing briefly in the desert after the Ship crashed, but I couldn't be sure. I had stripped the tunic off a corpse in order to use it myself and someone had made a feeble attempt to stop me. It might have been him, but then again, it could easily have been someone else of similar appearance. I hadn't paid much attention at the time.

As he took a few steps closer to my bed, I was able to read his nametag. He leaned forward and said quietly, *I know who you are and I know what you are. And if I can dig up even a scrap of evidence against you, I'll nail your ass to the wall. You understand me?*

I managed to keep my voice steady as I replied, *I understand you very well, Officer Francisco.*

As he turned and stalked out of the room, I figured that this particular cop could do it, too. He was that intense.

If anyone looked hard enough and long enough, I knew they would find something to incriminate me. It was only a matter of time before I would be in prison, if Piedra didn't get to me first. Since the police hadn't found Sisson, I figured he had reported back to her by now. After the way I had blown my assignment, I didn't think she'd particularly want me alive, much less on trial, where I might be tempted to trade information about her for a chance at freedom.

I figured if Officer Francisco didn't get me, Piedra certainly would. Neither prospect appealed to me, but I couldn't even get out of bed, much less do anything to avoid my fate. The hospital would at least afford me a certain amount of protection from Piedra. I was as safe as it was possible to be, under the circumstances. I just wished I knew exactly what Liett had told the police, or what she might decide to tell them later on.

After several extremely anxious days of recovery, I signed myself out of the hospital against the doctors' advice and picked up the emergency cache of savings bonds and cash I always kept hidden in a safe deposit box that even Piedra didn't know about.

Figuring that both Piedra and the police would check the airports first when my disappearance was noticed, I headed for the Amtrak station, where I bought a ticket to New York City. There was a small Tenctonese community already established there, so it would be a reasonable place for me to be expected to go.

At a whistle stop somewhere in the Midwest, I got off the train, after having traded tickets with a fellow passenger who was amenable to taking the long way home in return for a generous down payment and the promise of more money awaiting him if he picked it up in person at the main Post Office in NYC, general delivery.

And before you ask, yes, I made sure the money was there as promised. I wanted him to have no reason to tell his story to anyone even remotely connected with the law.

Meanwhile, I bought a used and inconspicuous van and started travelling around the country, mostly disguised as a human. What happened after that, as you humans say, is history.

Francis fell silent, staring down at the crumpled napkin in his hand.

"So you used the same trick on Thanika that Kheersa used on you, eh?" Pat asked slowly.

"Yes. And it worked."

"Perhaps," she concluded grudgingly. "But I wouldn't recommend using it on someone without a conscience. Kheersa took a big chance, trusting you like that."

"Yes."

"And that's what started you running from your past?" 

He nodded. 

She sat abruptly forward in her chair, arms propped on her thighs. "What stopped you from running, Francis? Why did you decide to stay here?"

"I wanted to belong somewhere -- to be part of something," he replied hesitantly, groping for words. "I was needed here, for the community to grow. I thought I could -- begin -- to make up for all I'd done, although I know I can never undo it."

Pat nodded slightly. "I see. But you're willing to give that all up if I decide we should sell out, right?"

Francis had an awful feeling that he'd lost the gamble. He tried to tell himself that perhaps it was just as well. Reciting that story about Piedra had brought it all back to him again. It was dangerous to stay in one place too long. Maybe it was time to be moving on anyway.

He sighed. “Yes, Pat. If you still think I betrayed your trust and want to be rid of me, I'll go along with you if you want to sell the Inn, even if you sell it to Larry."

She sat back in her chair, straightening her long legs and crossing one over the other. "Francis, why do I get the feeling that you're using the same technique on me that you used on Thanika?"

"No, I'm not. I mean --" He paused, suddenly surprised. Maybe she was right. He'd gambled the rest of his life on Pat's ability to recognize the truth when it was told to her, hadn't he? Was that so very different from gambling his life on Thanika's decision?

"Well, if I did," he admitted hastily, "I didn't plan it that way. I wasn't trying to maneuver you into anything. I mean --"

Much to his astonishment, Pat started to laugh. "Relax, boss. I know what you mean," she said at last. "But, like I said, don't ever try that on someone without a conscience, okay? You'd get yourself into a lot of trouble."

She'd called him "boss."

"Pat?"

A slow smile spread over the black woman's lips, then sparkled in her eyes. "Yeah, Francis. We're still partners." The smile faded a bit. "If you still want to be, that is."

Without giving him a chance to reply, she went on quickly, "I'm sorry for doubting you like that and I wouldn't blame you if you're pretty pissed. I guess I over-reacted. There was someone a long time ago -- " She cut herself off abruptly. "Well, that's not important. What matters now is the future, not the past."

Leaning forward, she extended one hand and asked softly, "Yes or no, boss? Still partners?"

"Partners," he replied. Silently reciting a quick prayer of thanks to the Infinitely Holy, Francis took her outstretched hand and shook it with enthusiasm.


	6. Showdown

SHOWDOWN

 

Francis lifted the opaque red veil from Sonni's head, then waited uncomfortably as she raised the veil covering his own face.

*Thanks be to the binnaum,* Sonni said, her blue eyes twinkling. She was no longer young, but the lines that were only beginning to etch themselves into her face were clearly derived from frequent smiles and laughter, rather than frowns.

*The wife to the husband, and the husband to the wife,* Francis replied formally, gesturing from Sonni to Hap and back again. Even as he said the familiar words, they sounded wrong. It wasn't that the ceremony hadn't been performed properly. He just felt as if he were somehow a phony.

As if you have no right to be doing this at all, something insisted in his head.

Trying to keep his feelings from showing in his voice, he continued, addressing the couple now standing happily before him, *Be as one, even as Celine and Andarko are one.*

*Thank you all,* Sonni said graciously to the guests who had come to the ceremony.

*Celebrate our union,* her husband cheerfully advised them all. Arms entwined, Sonni and Happy Day left the room together, gazing at each other as lovingly as might a new bride and groom.

As the guests relaxed and began chatting amongst themselves, Francis recalled how hesitant the older couple had been about having him as the binnaum of what would be, in all likelihood, their last child. They had the financial resources to go to the Order in New York, but after much deliberation, had chosen him instead.

Francis refrained from frowning only in deference to the happy occasion and high spirits of those around him. Ever since that run-in he'd had with Thanika Lestrei last month, he hadn't been able to dismiss the nagging echo of the other binnaum's accusations from his mind. He could still hear the scorn in Thanika's words when he had said, *You're not only practicing outside the Order, but you're desecrating our ceremonies by doing it as if you were entitled to practice.*

Maybe Thanika was right. Maybe he was desecrating the holy traditions. Maybe he had no business doing this at all, without the proper sanctions.

He suppressed a shudder. There was only one way someone like him could attempt to gain the approval of the Order, but that way was so horrible that he didn't even want to think about it. Besides, even if he did try it, they'd never absolve him. There were some things that simply could not be forgiven.

Gypsy Rose Lee put a gentle hand on his shoulder, interrupting his musings. "Francis? Scarlett's opening the sour milk. Would you like me to bring you some?"

Maybe that would dull the disturbing sense of wrongness that had plagued him all night. 

"Yes, Gypsy. I'd appreciate that."

Barely a minute had passed before she was back, holding out a glass. "Scarlett insisted on putting in a little chocolate syrup," she said shyly. "I hope you like it that way."

"Thanks. I'm sure that will be fine."

Across the room, someone had turned on the television. Francis wasn't paying much attention to the newscaster's voice as he downed half the milk in one gulp. Then Scarlett announced loudly, "Hey, everyone! Look! We're on the news!"

Conversation quieted as all heads turned toward the screen. The picture showed a mixed group of newcomers and humans, standing by the side of the road and holding signs. Scarlett O'Hara, looking confident as usual, with Gypsy by her side, a nervous smile flickering briefly across the face of the smaller woman as she realized she was on camera. Jane Wagner, standing next to her husband, Richard, who held their little boy proudly on his shoulders.

Then the camera focused on the newscaster, who said into her microphone, "This morning, just outside the small town of Cartersville, approximately 100 people gathered at the proposed site of a new resort, claiming that the developers had begun clearing and draining the land prior to receiving any permits and prior to the final determination of whether or not a large part of the property is, in fact, wetlands."

The camera panned the crowd, stopping for a moment on a sign that proclaimed, "IT WAS WETLANDS, UNTIL SEAGULL REALTY GOT AHOLD OF IT!" The scene shifted to show a desolate stretch of muddy land covered with felled trees.

"Today's isn't the first protest to be held over this issue," the newswoman went on as the camera moved back to show Pat standing next to her, "but it’s certainly the largest to date. The Committee to Sink Schooners Landing, which called this demonstration, was organized by local businesswoman Pat Fisher. Ms. Fisher, would you like to tell us briefly what you hope to accomplish here today?"

As Pat spoke, the camera pulled back to once more show the crowd. Much to Francis' dismay, he saw his own face flash across the screen. Although he always tried to avoid publicity, he couldn't very well not take part in the demonstration when he had been one of the organizers of the entire campaign to publicize what Larry Hatfrey was doing.

He downed the rest of his sour milk and went to the bar to pour another as Pat finished speaking and the newscaster wrapped up the segment.

*Not bad, Overseer.* Dix's voice came from behind him, pitched so low that only Francis could hear. *You made the national news with that little stunt. What do you plan to do for an encore?*

*That's up to the Committee,* Francis replied, carefully hiding the annoyance he felt at the man's taunting tone. Mason Dixon never lost an opportunity to get on his case, and he really wasn't in the mood to be harassed just now.

*Sure. Now tell me you and Pat aren't stirring up all this trouble just to keep that resort from going up next to the Atlantic Inn and driving you out of business.*

The older man's voice was slurred, and the almost-empty glass in his hand held sour cream, rather than milk. It wasn't like Dix to drink the strong stuff.

*Dix, if we were only in this for the money, we could have sold out to Hatfrey long ago,* Francis said reasonably. *He certainly offered us a good enough price.*

Francis turned and walked away before Dix could reply. The last thing he needed was to get in an argument with a drunk. Dix hated him enough when he was sober.

 

An hour later, Francis was on his way home. He'd had a bit more to drink than was wise, so it took all his concentration to maneuver his old van along the dark roads. It had rained earlier in the evening. With the temperature hovering right around freezing, the road was treacherously slick. When he turned off Highway 50 onto the road leading to the Inn, the van fishtailed slightly.

Warned, Francis slowed down to a crawl as he neared the hairpin curve at Possum Point. A few trees and low bushes stood behind the old metal barrier at the side of the road, and the shimmering surface of the Yaupon River could be clearly seen between them. Under normal conditions, the curve was no problem if you heeded the warning signs and speed bumps, but he and Pat still planned to have it straightened out as soon as the Inn had brought in enough money to pay for such an ambitious project.

Francis continued on down the road, eventually pulling off into the gravel drive that led past the Inn's five cottages. His own cottage stood in the shadows under a stand of loblolly pines. He parked the van and climbed out, wanting nothing so much as a hot shower and a soft bed. It had been a long day, with the demonstration in the morning and the coupling ceremony that evening.

Closed down for the winter, the main building was dark except for the floodlights around it that were left on each night. One of the windows in Pat's apartment showed a light, but he knew she wasn't there. She had gone up to Eddington with a contingent from the Coastal Green Society that had come for the protest. They planned to lobby at the state capitol in the morning.

Francis parked and got out, glad of the warmth provided by his insulated vest. The night air held a sharp nip of frost. He inhaled deeply, hoping it would help clear his head. He was about to open the back door of his van and take out his carefully folded ceremonial robe when a strange voice spoke up from the shadows behind him.

"Hold it right there, slag, or we'll shoot."

With the extent of the danger not yet defined, Francis figured it would be wise to comply. He froze, one hand still on the door handle.

"Put your hands up and turn around slowly."

A half-dozen white-robed figures confronted him, all armed. One of them stepped forward, carrying a pair of handcuffs. "Hands behind your back, slag," he ordered brusquely.

Francis took a good look at the cuffs before obeying, wanting to be sure they were merely routine police issue, not the special kind made for newcomers. Although they appeared strong enough to make it difficult, he was reasonably certain he could get out of them if he had to.

An enemy who thinks you're helpless is often overconfident and careless. He let them fasten the metal bands around his wrists.

"Okay, we got him," the human concluded. "Bring him around back and let's get this show on the road. It's cold out here."

Several pairs of hands grabbed Francis' arms and he found himself being dragged around his cottage, past the other cottages, and over towards the river. That made him distinctly uneasy. He could tell from the height of the water that the tide was in. That meant the river was dangerously contaminated with seawater just now.

As they came out from under the trees, he saw another group of Klansmen gathered on the lawn, standing around a large bonfire. Judging from the number of people, the Klan had had no trouble finding new members to replace the four Francis knew had been lost over the past year and a half.

Funny how hatred could always attract new followers.

Or maybe not so funny at all.

One of the robed figures had to be Larry Hatfrey. Francis let his captors continue to push him forward, figuring he'd end up in Larry's presence eventually. He was not disappointed in this assumption.

The man behind him shoved him down. "On your knees, slag."

When Francis tried to get up, a foot smashed into the sensitive nerve plexus under his right arm. Doubled over with pain, he was lifted roughly by the shoulders and set down once more in a kneeling position.

The Klan leader lifted one arm in an imperious gesture and the large wooden cross planted upright in the grass blazed into flame. It threw an eerie light over the lawn, casting flickering sparkles on the surface of the restless river that flowed at its back.

"Francis Bernardone, if you believe in God, I'd advise you to start praying," the white-robed human said pompously. No question as to his identity now; Francis recognized that voice. "What we've done in the past has been merely a warning. Now we're going to get serious. We are gathered tonight to strike the first blow against the newcomer conspiracy to take over this great nation of ours. It's become apparent that the other slags here in Cartersville look to you for guidance and -- uh -- certain other things --" As Larry paused meaningfully, sniggering laughter broke out among his followers. "Therefore, the effort to cleanse our fair country of this wave of pollution will start with you."

Francis had caught his breath by now. "It wouldn't also be because I just happen to own some property you want, would it, Larry?" he said loudly, knowing full well that his remark would earn him another cruel kick.

It did. Larry remained considerately silent until his victim had recovered enough to be once again set upright before him.

"As I was saying, we'll start with you, but others will have their turn, if they don't take the hint and leave town."

"Killing me won't scare them away," Francis gasped. "It's too late for that."

"Oh, we're not going to make a martyr out of you. Not by a long shot. We're not that stupid."

Then exactly what did they intend?

Larry's voice resumed its sanctimonious tone. "In order to preserve the purity of the human race -"

"All you want to preserve is your own bank account," Francis said distinctly. "Everybody knows all this Klan nonsense is for no better reason than to protect your profits."

"Bernardone, has anyone ever told you your mouth is too big for your own good?" Larry hissed.

"Want me to quiet him down some, boss?" one of the men inquired, fingering the coiled whip in his hand.

Somewhat to Francis' surprise, Larry shook his head.

"All we did was whip him last time, and that was a mistake. He didn't learn his lesson. This time we'll do a more thorough job of it."

Crossing his arms, Larry glared down at Francis, the firelight making his eyes just barely visible through the eyeholes of his mask. "This time we'll dump you in the river a little bit at a time. When we're done, there'll be no body left to find. We'll tell everyone we scared you into running away. That ought to take some of the wind out of your friends' sails. If they think we scared off an Overseer, they'll take the hint and decide to leave before we can get around to dealing with them."

Francis managed a scornful laugh. "Not very likely," he said loudly. "Newcomers know it didn't take much courage to be an Overseer, any more than it takes courage for a mob of people to savage one individual. All that's required is a lack of moral character."

This didn't go over so well with the Klan, most of whom were smart enough to recognize that they had just been insulted.

"Nonsense!" Larry retorted. "If you go, we can persuade the rest of them to follow."

Francis quickly calculated the odds against him. Four of the ten Klansmen had guns, but if he could reach the shadows at the edge of the woods, they'd have a hard time hunting him down in the darkness. He could make a break for it. Maybe a direct charge at Larry. If he could drive the man backwards into the burning cross, that might cause enough confusion to enable him to escape. It was a chance, if not a very good one. Better than waiting to be thrown in the river.

"Pat Fisher will never believe I ran away," Francis replied, playing for time as he gathered his feet beneath him.

"Well then, we'll just have to plan a little party like this for her too, won't we, boys? That might convince her to see reason."

Francis was about to leap up during the tense laughter that followed that last remark, but another KIansman hurried over to Larry, whispering something to him in an urgent undertone. Larry nodded and then looked up at his followers.

"We're going to have to postpone our little party for a short time, boys. Someone wants to talk to our guest of honor here."

Francis shifted gears abruptly. This could be an opportunity for a less suicidal form of escape. Best to go along and see what happened. He could always make a break for it later on. A few mocking groans and complaints greeted Larry's announcement, but this didn't seem to bother the Klan leader much.

"There's a case of whiskey in the back of my car," he announced, waving his arms for quiet. "I was saving it for later, but you all may as well have some while we're waiting."

The groans changed to cheerful curses.

Two stout Klansmen hoisted Francis to his feet. Escorted by the four with rifles, they marched him back around the dark cottages.

In the shadowed parking lot next to his beat-up old van there sat a silver-gray Cadillac limousine. It wasn't until the back door had been jerked open and he had been shoved inside that he remembered where he had last seen such an automobile, and who had owned it.

Unable to catch himself with his hands cuffed behind his back, Francis sprawled face down on the soft carpet of the car's floor, unable to see more than the feet of the person on the seat. He landed hard and twisted his bad shoulder, but that pain was nothing compared to the terror clawing at his hearts. Even before he could look around, his worst fears were confirmed by the voice that greeted him with evident amusement.

*Did you really think you could run away from me, Treyma?* Piedra Frelani asked. She leaned back against the plush upholstery, her handsome face set in a smile that sent fresh chills down his spine. A stray shaft of moonlight struck sparks from the two diamond bracelets that bracketed the tattoo on her wrist, but all Francis noticed was the neural wand she held, almost casually, in her hand. Close to two feet long and pencil-thin, the translucent wand glowed pink along its entire length, indicating it was presently on a low setting. But Francis knew it could be run up through the spectrum to brilliant purple in less time than it would take for him to wrest it from her hands, even if he weren't cuffed.

He glanced quickly around the interior of the car and found it empty. That figured. It would be entirely in keeping with Piedra's usual arrogance to come after him alone, despite the risk.

Francis pulled himself into a sitting position on the spacious floor of the limousine. It was hard to look dignified with both hands secured behind his back, but he crossed his legs and prepared to try.

With the Klan, there had been a chance. With Piedra Frelani, he was as good as dead. There was nothing to be gained by appealing to her mercy, for she had none. That being the case, it should be no more difficult to die bravely than to die a coward.

*I figured you'd catch up with me eventually,* he said with all the calm he could muster. *It was only a question of when.* With an elaborate shrug that sent a fresh streak of pain through his shoulder, he concluded, *Considering the fate the Klan had in store for me, you picked a pretty good time to appear.*

Piedra actually laughed. Leaning forward, she drew the point of the wand across his cheek. All it did at that setting was cause an unpleasant tingling, but a shudder went up his spine nevertheless. *You know better than that. I can make the worst those terts can do seem like fun and games.*

It was no idle bluff and Francis knew it. Trying to ignore the glowing tip of that too-familiar wand hovering not far from his face, he asked, *How did you find me?*

*You'll never believe it, Treyma, but it was the sheerest coincidence that led me to you. Or should I say, led you to me?*

*What do you mean?*

*Where do you think the money behind Schooners Landing came from?*

No! Oh no! After all he'd done to get away from her, he'd run right into one of Piedra's far-flung investments!

*You're kidding,* he choked out.

A wolfish smile spread across her face. She was evidently enjoying his consternation.

*I never kid. A big chunk of that resort is mine. I figured it to be a sure thing, and didn't even realize you were the one who bought the Atlantic Inn until fairly recently.* She made a disgusted gesture in the direction of the flaming cross with the wand. *When things started going sour, Hatfrey kept telling me he could handle it. I never should have believed him. I should have stepped in myself when that damn fool of a Marine managed to blow herself up instead of the Inn. It wasn't until the protests began that I investigated the situation in more detail. Just imagine my surprise when I saw your name on the reports!* 

*Does Hatfrey know who you are?* 

*No. To him I'm just a rich slag businesswoman. No one on this poor excuse for a planet knows who I am anymore. Piedra Frelani is dead as far as the government records are concerned. Even their vaunted tissue-typing couldn't identify me now.*

He wasn't surprised. With enough money and influence, any record could be falsified.

*I find it deliciously ironic,* she went on. *These stupid Klan terts go around terrorizing newcomers, never realizing whose interest they're serving by doing it. Don't you think that's funny, Treyma?*

*As one of those being terrorized, no,* he replied dryly.

*Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten. We want your interest in the Atlantic Inn, so you're going to sign this agreement to sell to Seagull Development Company.* The wand flicked briefly toward some papers on the seat beside her.

*I can't sell without my partner's approval.* 

Don't worry, that'll be taken care of. We'll get her signature soon enough. At present, all I'm interested in is yours.*

*No.*

*That was not a request,* she said lightly. *You'll sign, Treyma. If not now, then later. But you will sign.* The wand glowed blue and Francis clenched his teeth, anticipating pain.

Piedra laughed at his reaction. *You remember what it was like, I see.* Much to his relief, the wand went back to pink before she used it to lift his chin so he had to look up at her.

*I always did enjoy your company, my long-lost friend. How nice to have you back.*

He drew away, glaring at her. *I'm not your friend. And I'm not back.* 

*Oh yes you are. You just don't realize it yet.* 

*If you think I will ever work for you again, you're wrong.*

*Come now, Treyma. Aren't you tired of living like a common slave in this two-bit town? Haven't you had enough of it yet?*

The wand did more than tingle where it rested lightly against his throat. It flared red now and it burned uncomfortably. Reminding himself the pain was simulated and didn't reflect any true tissue damage, Francis said, *The only thing I've had enough of is you.*

Ignoring his remark, she went on silkily, *You don't belong with these people. You're one of the Chosen. You belong with your own kind. Surely you don't think we'll be marooned on this backwater planet forever, do you? A shipload of slaves is valuable. A probe came by searching for us a couple of months ago.*

This was news to Francis. Bad news. *What happened? Did anyone contact it?*

A slight frown crossed her face, then she passed it off by a too-careless shrug. The tip of the wand withdrew from his throat.

*We're not sure. An attempt was made, but it may not have been entirely successful. Nevertheless, if even a part of our message got through, that will be enough to draw further investigation. It's only a matter of time.* She smiled. *When they come for us, do you really want to go back to being part of the cargo?*

*If the only possible choice is to be a master or to be a slave, the right thing is to be a slave,* he said softly, hearing Kheersa's voice even as he quoted from the Teachings.

Piedra's steel-gray eyes turned hard and her brow wrinkled into a chilling frown. *You are a fool, Treyma.*

*No, Piedra. You are.*

*If I take you back to Los Angeles with me, I believe I could persuade you to change your mind.*

*I don't think so.*

His flat denial angered her. With a deft flick of her wrist, the neural wand drew a green streak of burning agony across his chest, its field only slightly diminished by the down vest he wore. He refused to scream. There would be plenty of time for that later on.

*I broke you once, Treyma. I can do it again.* 

*That was a long time ago and the circumstances were not the same,* Francis said carefully, but he wasn't as certain as he was trying to sound. *Today you'll have to kill me.*

*That can be arranged.*

Francis met her eyes, ignoring the tip of the wand in front of his face. *Then do it. Or I swear by the Infinitely Holy, I'll kill you.*

It wasn't until after the words had left his mouth that he realized just how very much he meant them.

Piedra laughed.

*If you're going to be stubborn, perhaps I'll turn you over to those white-robed terts and let them take you swimming in the river.*

All right, then he'd be dead -- but he wouldn't be serving her. And it would be over quickly, compared to what she could do to him.

But before he could reply, Piedra had second thoughts. *No, I think not. That would be too easy.*

The last traces of amusement had disappeared from her face, and Francis knew she was getting tired of toying with him.

She leaned forward. *What is it with you, Treyma? Why did you leave us? Why the sudden attack of righteousness?*

*You wouldn't understand.* And if I tried to explain, you would pick it apart, rationalize it away, and make it sound like foolish idealism. But I won't give you the chance to do that, not this time.

*What does this little town mean to you?* she persisted. *Or is it the newcomers here? I'm told they seem to like you, at least for the most part. Even some of the terts are your friends nowadays. Do they know about you, really? Do you think they'd still accept you, if they did?*

Not so very long ago, that question would have been enough to make him doubt. But not now, not after Pat had found out so much about his past and yet remained his friend.

*Some of them would. Some of them already have.* 

She studied him for a moment and he knew the look in those gunmetal eyes. Piedra Frelani knew how to flay her victims' souls along with their bodies. *And if they will accept you, how much does that matter when you yourself will not?* She leaned closer still. *I hear you've been putting on a pretty good show, following all the rituals and acting like a real binnaum. Who do you think you're fooling, the others or yourself? Or perhaps you think you can deceive your precious Celine and Andarko?* She snorted scornfully. *Don't make me laugh!*

She held up her wrist. *You wear this mark on your soul, Treyma, not just on your body. If you think any amount of pretty words and ceremonies can erase it, you're sadly mistaken.*

Francis closed his eyes and tried not to wince visibly. This time she spoke the truth, and those few words were enough to shake his soul. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? He was Kleezantsun# and always would be. From that there was no escape. Was he really ready to throw away his life in a vain effort to erase a past that could not possibly be erased? Even if he had the courage to go to the Order and attempt to gain absolution, it would be hopeless. Could he possibly be so naive as to believe they would ever accept the likes of him? He was beating his head against a stone wall -- and all for nothing. There was no forgiveness for him, not from mortals and not from the Infinitely Holy.

If he went back to Piedra, he wouldn't have to think about that anymore. Never again would he have to face the accusing looks in the eyes of every newcomer he saw. No one would look down on him for what he had been. No one would dare. He could have it all again: the wealth, the power. But best of all, an end to the soul-crushing load of guilt. If he could only go back --

*Can you close your eyes when once you have seen the light, Bin Treyma?* said the long-familiar voice in his head. *And if you can, do you think you will ever truly see again?*

*Kheersa, no!* he protested. *Let me go! I can't stand the guilt any longer. I will not hear you. I will not!c*Then walk back into the darkness, poor child. But do not expect ever to see the light again. *

He bowed his head in shame. Maybe there was indeed no hope for him, but did that give him the right to continue to do evil?

Taking his lack of response as an acknowledgement that she was right, Piedra said smugly, *I knew you'd see the sense in what I had to say.*

When Francis glanced up again, there was fresh conviction in his hearts. *Sense, Piedra? You twist the truth to your own ends just as you have always done. Why should you think that makes sense?*

This time it was her mouth that gaped open in surprise, but she recovered quickly. The wand blazed purple against his temple and his head exploded in a torment of anguish. Black stars flared behind his eyes and he doubled over. His breath jarred out of him in a harsh moan as he tried to cling to rationality. She couldn't continue long at this setting. It paralyzed his breathing and could cause his hearts to fail. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop.

By the time it did, he was sprawled backwards against the door of the limousine, half-conscious.

*That's just a sample of what I can do, Treyma. It gets worse.*

His eyes were still closed, but he felt her draw the tip of the wand, now mercifully dark, down the front of his body towards his groin.

*But then, you know that, don't you?* she continued smoothly. *I can break you, my foolish friend. I can break anyone, given enough time.*

He was all too afraid she spoke the truth. Despite his courage and determination, if she took him back with her --

Then he mustn't allow her to take him back. It was as simple as that. He'd end it here, and kill her, or die in the attempt. But he needed a few minutes to catch his breath and let his nerves recover from the ravages of that vicious wand.

He said nothing, pretending to a greater weakness than he actually felt.

*I've spent enough time on this already, Treyma. We can continue our little chat in Los Angeles,* Piedra said lightly.

*What about Larry and his friends?* he asked, stalling for time. *They're expecting a bit of excitement tonight.*

*Yes, that's true. Thanks for reminding me. I think I'll tell them to burn down the Inn. That ought to keep them occupied for a while.*

His question had only made things worse, if that was possible. But he had caught his breath now and he wasn't shaking anymore.

*If you think I'm going to just drive out of here with you, you're sadly mistaken,* Francis replied.

*Oh, I know that. I have every intention of drugging you first, don't worry.* She reached into a pocket and brought out a small syringe. *I promise not to use the wand if you'll just --*

The nearby warble of police sirens suddenly split the night, as squad cars raced down the road to the Inn. Piedra's head jerked around, but the neural wand held steady just in front of Francis' face. Much to his dismay, the police cars went right past the limousine, only coming to a halt when they reached the lawn, where the cross still flickered fitfully.

Francis couldn't see what was happening, but from all the shouting and noise, he concluded that the cops were attempting to round up the Klansmen. That wouldn't help him much if Piedra drugged him and then drove away.

*Keep quiet!* she hissed, leaning low in her seat and reaching towards him.

A single gunshot crashed through the commotion outside, followed rapidly by others.

Piedra jumped, momentarily startled.

Francis chose that moment to act. Wrenching his wrists apart with all his strength, he felt the chain between the cuffs snap as he brought his left hand around to smash across Piedra's wrist. The wand flew from her fingers, but Francis didn't bother to go after it. All he wanted was out of the car and away from her. He clawed at the door latch, sprawling out and down onto the gravel of the parking lot as the door sprang open. He was running almost before he had gotten to his feet.

He ducked around the side of the nearest cottage, out of Piedra's line of sight. Wanting only to put distance between himself and the other Overseer, he raced along behind the curving line of cabins in the direction of the woods. He was about to sprint across an open stretch of lawn and lose himself in the forest when he realized that might not be the best idea. Judging by the noise, a number of Klansmen had made for the same destination, with the police hot on their heels.

He halted, hunkered down behind a large hawthorn bush. Blood ran down over his right hand and he realized the cuffs had cut his wrist almost to the bone before letting go. Peering through the leaves, he surveyed the lawn that reached from the cabins down to the river.

The night was vivid with confusion. White-clad Klansmen ran through the shadows like panicked ghosts, while police officers shouted unheeded orders and crashed through the bushes after them. The wooden cross had almost burned itself out, its gaunt skeleton now little more than smoldering charcoal against the dark night sky.

Briefly, he wondered why the police had come in the first place, but he dismissed that as useless speculation. The uproar created by the humans was of little consequence to him. Let them sort that out amongst themselves. Piedra Frelani was his only real problem.

Would she come after him? Unlikely, with all these humans running around. The last thing she'd want would be to get involved with the authorities.

What would she do, then?

No, the first question was what was she doing now?

Cautiously, Francis crept along the side of the small building and peeked around the corner at the parking lot.

The white caddy was still parked in its place. Had Piedra gotten out and made her getaway on foot? Or might she still be in the car, lying low until she could leave unnoticed?

If she were still there, all it would take would be one word to the police and she could be captured. But what then? She hadn't done anything illegal tonight. With the kind of lawyers she had, she'd be out of jail immediately.

He had to stop her, but what could he do? He could hardly storm the car, unarmed as he was. Even as Francis crouched watching, a Klansman ran around the corner of one of the other cottages, heading directly for the caddy. He had lost his hood somewhere and held the skirt of his robe clutched up above his waist so he wouldn't trip.

Francis immediately recognized the awkwardly running figure as Larry Hatfrey. Could the man possibly know just who it was that might be inside the car?

He watched in astonishment as Larry beat on the driver's window with his fist. The shouting and hubbub had diminished to the point where Francis could clearly hear Larry's frantic voice.

"Open up, damn you! Get me out of here!"

The window whirred down. "Shut up, you fool!" Piedra hissed. "Get away from me!"

The human grabbed the car door and started to reach inside. "You'll take me out of here, slag bitch, or I'll tell the police about you," he threatened.

Wrong move, Larry. That thought barely had time to register on Francis' mind before Piedra's hand shot out the window and clutched the man's neck. She jerked his head forward against the roof of the car so hard that Francis could hear the snap as Larry's neck broke. His body slumped lifelessly to the gravel, all but decapitated, blood spurting from torn arteries staining the white robe scarlet.

Simultaneously, the limousine engine roared into life. The big silver car backed and turned. It started out of the parking lot, throwing a shower of gravel up behind it.

Francis raced for his van. He had no real hope of catching the powerful Caddy, but he couldn't just stand there and watch her drive away. Flinging himself behind the wheel, he sped after her.

The red bar of Piedra's taillights flew down the drive and out onto the paved road. Even with his gas pedal to the floor, Francis couldn't keep up.

His speedometer needle was touching seventy when he remembered the hairpin curve only a mile ahead. If he could stay on her tail, he might panic Piedra enough to keep her from slowing down in time.

Of course, it was entirely possible he himself wouldn't be able to stop in time either. The road still glistened with patches of ice from the storm that had passed by earlier.

The first warning sign blazed up in the beam from the caddy's lights, but her brake lights didn't come on. He could picture Piedra behind the wheel, her attention torn between the car behind her and the road before her. She would know it was him in the van.

It was getting too close. Francis pumped his own brakes, gently at first, praying he wouldn't skid too far on the slick pavement.

The caddy bounced over the speed bump. Only then did its brake lights flash into life. In a sort of strange slow motion, Francis saw the other car begin to slide sideways as it tried to take the curve. For a brief moment, it seemed that it might make it, but then the heavy automobile crashed into the barrier. With a shriek of torn metal, the flimsy guardrail gave way and the Caddy kept right on going.

At the edge of the low riverbank, it flipped over sideways and skidded out into the river, sending up plumes of water.

Francis lost sight of the other car in the darkness, but by then he had his own problems. He downshifted, forcing himself not to step too hard on the brake pedal. The van was slowing as it hit the curve, but not by enough.

Francis fought for control even as he felt the wheels start to slide. The sheared-off edges of the guardrail yawned open before him, with nothing but a few bushes between the road and the river. For a terrible moment, he thought he would follow Piedra into the water. Then the gap was behind him.

But the curve still continued and he knew he wouldn't make it all the way. The van plowed into the guardrail. Francis tried to brace himself against the wheel, realizing too late that he had never fastened his seatbelt. Then he was through the rail and a tree trunk loomed out of the darkness. The car stopped abruptly and Francis flew forward. His head hit the windshield with a blinding crack. Pain lanced through his chest and up his right leg, but the van had stopped and he wasn't in the river.

In the beam of one remaining headlight, Francis could just see the Caddy's wheels breaking the surface of the roiling water. Blood ran into his eyes and a sharp pain stabbed into his side as he took a shaky breath. Seconds passed, then minutes. No one struggled out of the Caddy, no dazed figure lay on the shore. She had to be out there, under that deadly water.

The smell of raw gasoline assaulted his nostrils. Francis tried to move, but his right leg refused to obey him. Belatedly, he switched off the ignition. The headlight died, but he kept watching the river, even as a blacker darkness hovered around the edges of his vision.

I should get out of here. The van might explode. I've got to move, he told himself frantically. But his body wouldn't respond. His brain felt foggy, somehow disconnected from the rest of the world.

The van door opened. Someone grabbed him and pulled him sideways. That hurt so badly he wanted to protest, but he knew he'd be safer away from the wrecked car.

Strong arms slid under his knees and shoulders, lifting him easily. His eyes seemed to want to droop closed rather than look up at the face of his rescuer, but he willed them to open.

And found he was being held and carried by Mason Dixon. That seemed somehow odd, but his sluggish brain didn't want to analyze the strangeness just then.

Dix laid him down carefully just beyond the far edge of the pavement. *Lie still,* he cautioned. *Richard will be here in a few minutes with the ambulance.*

This made no sense. Why had Dix pulled him out of the van? Dix would have been just as happy to see him dead.

*What are you doing here?* Francis asked, forming his words slowly and with as much care as he might use after drinking too much sour milk.

*I left the coupling ceremony just after you did,* the older man answered, taking the question literally. *I was pretty drunk. I intended to follow you home and then beat the shit out of you.* Dix's eyes flickered around the trees and bushes as if he expected something to leap out at them at any minute. *I parked my car up the road aways and came down on foot to take you by surprise, but I saw that cross burning and you surrounded by Klansmen. I was sorely tempted to just watch them kill you, but when you told Larry off like that, I changed my mind. I called the police on my car phone. By the time I got back, you were nowhere to be seen. I thought they had killed you already until I saw your van take off down the road. Where the hell were you going?*

*After Piedra Frelani.* He had spoken without thinking. The other man remembered him from the Ship, so it was entirely possible that he had run afoul of Piedra also. Would her name mean anything to him?

Obviously, it did. Francis felt the insane urge to laugh at the look of shock that crossed the other newcomer's face. The whole situation seemed dreamlike and unreal.

*What?!* Dix choked out. *Piedra Frelani? Here? Where is she?*

*In the car,* Francis replied, gesturing with his right hand. He stared for a moment at the broken handcuff, still dangling from his bleeding wrist. 

*What car?* Dix asked, puzzled.

*In the river. Couldn't make the curve.* 

*River? She's in the water? At high tide?!* 

*Yes.* This time Francis couldn't stop the laughter from escaping his lips, even though it sent searing pain through his chest. If Dix knew Piedra, he certainly wanted her dead, didn't he? Why should he look so appalled? He'd only gotten his wish, after all.

Wait a minute. I'm laughing about a newcomer dying in saltwater. What's the matter with me? I must have hit my head harder than I thought.

His laughter turned to racking coughs and he tasted blood in his mouth.

*Francis, stop it!* Dix ordered, holding his shoulders. *Easy now. Take a slow breath. That's it.*

The pain eased, but it had cleared some of the cobwebs from his mind. *Dix,* he gasped, *don't tell anyone who she is.*

*What are you talking about?*

*Piedra. She's the money behind Schooners Landing. Let the police believe her false ID. I don't want them to realize she's still alive and connect her to me.* He clutched the other man's arm. *Don't tell the police.*

*Are you begging me, Overseer?* Dix asked harshly.

Grabbing a handful of the other man's jacket, Francis attempted to pull himself up as he replied fervently, *Yes! In the name of the Infinitely Holy, let me bury the past!*

*I buried my wife because of you,* Dix said slowly.

*I'd have given my life to save her, if I could have,* Francis replied, fighting to get enough breath to speak.

Dix glanced over at the wrecked van, perilously close to the river. *I almost think I believe you,* he said at last. *You damn near gave your life to drive Piedra into the water, didn't you?*

Francis nodded, a certain amount of calm returning to his ravaged brain. If only he could get a decent breath, he might be able to convince Dix not to betray him.

*It would have been an even trade,* he said weakly.

Dix was quiet for a moment. *What did she want from you?*

*She wanted me to go back to her.*

The distinctive scream of the rescue squad ambulance warbled down the road. Soon there would be medics, police, questions.

*Please, Dix. Don't tell them about Piedra,* Francis pleaded again, his ragged voice giving way to another spasm of choking coughs.

The other man didn't answer as the ambulance screeched to a halt. Then Richard Wagner was leaning over him, shouting for a stretcher.

Francis tried to say something, but Richard ordered him not to talk. The world spun in dizzy circles and everything turned a bit vague as he was lifted onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. An oxygen mask over his nose and mouth took some of the effort out of breathing. He heard Richard say something about broken ribs and a punctured lung, concussion, a possibly broken ankle, but didn't pay much attention. There was something else he should be worrying about, but it had slipped his mind. Something about Piedra --

Suddenly there was a policeman leaning through the ambulance doors, firing questions in his direction. He'd have to try to talk now, despite Richard's orders. He had to --

Dix's voice, close alongside him. What was Dix doing in the ambulance?

"Yes, there was a newcomer in that Caddy," he heard the other man say. "Francis claimed she was one of the backers for Schooners Landing."

"Can you tell me her name?" the officer asked. "By the time we got to her, there wasn't much left."

Francis closed his eyes, wishing there were some way to prevent what Dix would say next but knowing it was already too late.

"I don't know her name. Do you know who she was, Francis?"

Trying to keep his astonishment from showing in his face, Francis shook his head.

"Well, whoever she was, she must have panicked when she heard the shooting and tried to get away," Dix said quickly. "You know how sharp this curve is." He shook his head, as if to agree what a tragedy the unknown woman's death was.

As the officer began another question, Richard summarily interrupted him. "I'm sorry, but I've got to get my patient to the hospital. You can ask him about all this later." He pulled the doors closed and told the driver to get going.

"A newcomer was backing Schooners Landing?'" Richard asked disbelievingly. "Will wonders never cease?"  
They haven't ceased yet, Francis thought. Dix didn't betray me.

As the ambulance picked up speed, Richard noticed the blood still oozing from Francis' wrist. As he reached over to examine it closer, Francis' other hand automatically started to move to pull his sleeve down over his tattoo.

Unexpectedly, Dix's hand covered his own, preventing him from completing the habitual gesture. With a slight frown of puzzlement, he looked at his long-time adversary.

"Francis," the other newcomer said, meeting his gaze head-on, "you don't have to do that anymore."

That simple statement almost brought tears to Francis' eyes. He nodded in silent gratitude.

Even as he acknowledged Dix's welcome acceptance, he knew there yet remained one more thing he had to do before he himself could face the tattoo. But this night he had confronted Piedra Frelani and come out of it alive. Could he not also confront the Order and hope for success?

Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance. If Dix could forgive him, perhaps it was not impossible that the Order could do so also.

But any decision on that would have to wait until he recovered from this night's activities. Pushing all other considerations from his mind, Francis concentrated on continuing to breathe until they could reach the hospital. That was about all he could cope with just now.

 


	7. All That Truly Matters

ALL THAT TRULY MATTERS

"The past is over. What are you now, today? And what do you wish to be tomorrow? That is all that truly matters."  
Kheersa Pentaleri

 

Pat,  
Left town to take care of some personal business. If all goes well, I'll be back by the end of the month.  
Francis

Pat read over the note several times before replacing it on the gleaming cedar surface of the Front Desk.

Just like that, he left? No warning, no hint of why? No address or phone number to contact? That wasn't like Francis at all.

Of course, there was no reason he shouldn't take off for a while. It was mid-February and the Atlantic Inn was still closed down for the winter.

Pat went around behind the Desk and unlocked the door to her apartment, mumbling distracted greetings to the two cats who twined themselves around her ankles as if they hadn't seen her for years.

Why hadn't he told her he was planning to leave? And why had he gone while she herself was off on a weekend trip to Eddington with Scarlett O'Hara?

Why indeed? Except that he hadn't wanted her to know he was going.

Troubled, Pat set her overnight bag on her bed and began unpacking.

"If all goes well," the note had said. What was it that was supposed to go well, and what if it didn't?

She was sure that something had been bothering Francis over the last couple of months. Ever since that final confrontation with Piedra Frelani and the Klan, he had been unusually withdrawn and quiet, when he should have been glad their troubles were over.

No, it went back even beyond that, to the night Thanika Lestrei had tried to kill him. There had been something on his mind since then, but she hadn't been able to persuade him to confide in her, despite their friendship.

Pat considered. Bin Thanika had been sent by the New York City branch of the Order to check up on Francis. Why had that upset him so? While he'd been in the hospital recovering from the injuries he'd sustained in the recent car crash, the first thing he'd asked her to bring him was a Celinist prayerbook.

She grimaced, taking a shirt from her bag and shaking out the wrinkles before hanging it in the closet. Did this have something to do with religion? She sincerely hoped not. She'd rejected all that nonsense long ago, after that bastard Reverend Barden had -- well, never mind that. She knew all that religious stuff still meant something to Francis, although they didn't talk about it much. Once he'd realized she wasn't interested, he hadn't brought up the subject again.

Nevertheless, something had been bothering him. His broken ribs and the torn ligaments in his ankle had pretty well healed, but she hadn't seen him smile very often since he'd come home from the hospital. Maybe it was just the winter, which had been particularly dreary and rainy this year. It would soon be spring, time for the trees to bud and the first early flowers to push their tentative way into the sunshine. He'd start feeling better then, and they'd make plans for re-opening the Inn in April.

She shook her head. Stop fooling yourself, girl. If that's all it was, he'd be here right now.

No, it couldn't be that simple. Last week, he'd come back from catalyzing a child for Fisher and Ginny Price and proceeded to drink himself unconscious on sour milk. That was totally unlike the Francis she knew.

On an impulse, Pat reached for her phone and dialed.

"Scarlett? Something's come up and I need some information."

"No bother, honey," the newcomer replied cheerfully. "What is it you want to know?"

Scarlett's voice brought back memories of the weekend they'd just spent together. It had seemed so natural and so easy, the way they had ended up in each other's arms after talking late into the night in the motel room.

Pat pulled her thoughts back into the present. "I need the phone number of the Order in New York City."

Scarlett's voice took on a wary tone. "Why do you want that?"

"Francis left, but didn't tell me where he went. I thought maybe he might have gone to see them." Even as she put it into words, it sounded implausible.

"If he wanted you to know where he was, wouldn't he have told you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Pat admitted unwillingly. Perhaps this wasn't her business. It was only a hunch, and maybe he wasn't even there, yet the whole thing didn't feel right somehow. "But I think something's wrong. He may be in some kind of trouble."

The other woman didn't answer right away and when she did, she sounded distinctly displeased. "If he is, are you sure you want to get involved?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it may be something he's got to deal with himself. Maybe you don't belong mixed up in it."

Now, why was Scarlett being so unhelpful about this?

"What are you trying to say?"

A faint sigh came over the line. "Francis may not have been the worst or most vicious Overseer, but there was no such thing as a good Overseer."

"Scarlett! I thought you knew him better than that! "

"Are you sure you know him all that well?"

"Yes, I believe I do. Honestly, I'm beginning to think you're jealous of him or something."

Scarlett chuckled. "No, darlin', not hardly. I know you two are just friends. I'll give you the number, if that's what you want. I just hope you know what you're getting into, that's all."

As Pat dialed the number, she hoped the exact same thing.

After a brief conversation, she called U.S. Air and booked herself onto the first available flight out of Willemton the next day. Her lips set into a determined line, she began packing her bag again.

 

Bin Veylan Arved, Drevny of the New York City branch of the Order, sat behind the polished expanse of his desk, frowning at the newcomer facing him. The sleeves of his ornate robe rustled slightly as he folded his hands and rested them on the desktop.

Trying to conceal his disgust, the Drevny studied his unwelcome visitor. So this was the infamous Treyma #Sendra, known to the humans as Francis Bernardone. Well, he didn't look particularly impressive. Middle-aged, medium height, a bit on the slender side -- put him in a proper robe and he'd look pretty much like any of the other binnaums here at the monastery.

But he isn't like any of the others, the Drevny reminded himself, his frown deepening.

*Do I understand you correctly, Bin Treyma?* he asked coldly. *You want us to accept you as one of us, despite your past?*

The man couldn't be serious. An Overseer in the Order? Preposterous!

Bin Veylan set his face into the expression he used to cow some of his more obstreperous subordinates, hoping it would have the same effect on this – creature -- who had insisted on seeing him. Although the Drevny had put him off for two days, the other man had stubbornly refused to be discouraged from his quest.

*Yes, Drevny,* the visitor replied humbly.

*Do you know what you're asking?* Bin Veylan demanded. *Do you know what you'd have to do to even make it possible for us to consider such a thing?*

*I know the requirements for a case such as mine,* the Overseer replied calmly. *I know what the druvaad# entails. I'm willing to go through it.*

The Drevny shook his head. The man was mad! *Why? You'd never be at home here. I don't think anyone in this area would want someone like you as the binnaum of their child. You'd risk your sanity, even your life – for what?*

*In order not to be a travesty of the real thing! In order to function as I should, not as a renegade and an outcast! In order to --*

Momentarily, the man's face had lit up with a strange intensity. His voice had risen from its steady calm into something which sounded unpleasantly like a person about to lose control of himself. Then the passion faded as fast as it had come and he finished quietly, *In order to truly serve Celine and Andarko, and through them, the Infinitely Holy. Isn't that worth it?*

*Perhaps.* The Drevny sat back in his chair, surprised at the unexpectedly pious sentiments expressed by the Overseer. There was evidently more to this man than would appear at first glance.

He shrugged slightly at the thought. Well, there would have to be, wouldn't there? It was said that Bin Treyma regretted his past and was trying to live a moral life. Bin Thanika had reported some surprising things about him, when he had returned from his investigation, but the Drevny wasn't sure he could believe all that Thanika had said.

Bin Treyma shifted uneasily under the Drevny's gaze. Without seeming to notice what he was doing, he tugged on the bottom of his right sleeve, as if attempting to pull it down further over his wrist.

The Drevny noted the obviously habitual gesture with interest, but didn't remark upon it.

*I'm told you run a motel in a part of this country called the South,* Bin Veylan said.

The sudden change of subject appeared to startle the Overseer. *Uh -- yes, that's right,* he replied uncertainly.

*And you also catalyze children as a sort of a sideline?*

The other binnaum looked as if he were about to jump out of his chair. *It's not a sideline! I don't take money, Drevny. I do it because --* His voice trailed off.

 

*Go on,* Bin Veylan prompted.

The Overseer had regained his composure by now. *Where I live, there are a lot of Tenctonese who can't afford to come to New York for a binnaum, or pay to have someone come to them. I do it because someone has to and I'm there.*

*And you use the Celinist rituals,* Bin Veylan stated sourly.

Treyma looked down at the desktop while answering. *Yes. The people want it that way.*

*How about you?*

*I want it that way,* the Overseer admitted, looking up at last. *And there was something I wanted to mention in connection with this,* he went on boldly, *if you'll hear me out.*

Now what? Bin Veylan asked himself. Curious, he nodded his head.

*If the Order should decide to accept me, it might be a good idea for me to continue as I've been doing, rather than coming here to live in the monastery. As you've said, people in this area wouldn't want me, and it would serve a definite need in the small-town communities in my part of the --*

The Drevny cut him off with a peremptory gesture. *Such a thing has never been done. It has no basis in the Law of Celine and Andarko.*

*The Law was meant for Tencton, and it may have worked fine there,* the other man objected. *Our situation has changed, and the Law must change also.*

The Drevny smiled contemptuously and asked with intentional sarcasm, *Will you now interpret the Law for me?*

That didn't sit too well with the Overseer. Anger flashed across his face, but, to his credit, it was quickly suppressed. *You are free not to accept my interpretation, Drevny,* he replied evenly. *As I am free not to accept yours.*

*True. But you seem to have forgotten that you're the one seeking acceptance here, not me.* 

This obvious fact discouraged Treyma not in the least. *Binnaums need not be sequestered and grouped together,* he persisted. *It serves no purpose.*

*We are protected by our seclusion --*

*No, you are not! On this world, where there are those who would see the end of the Tenctonese people, you have conveniently concentrated yourselves in several locations. Those locations are capable of being destroyed by a few well-placed bombs. Where would we be then?*

*Surely, the humans wouldn't --*

*I've met some who would!* With a nervous smile, Bin Treyma forced his voice back under control. *As the humans say, we have put all our eggs into one basket.*

Bin Veylan spread his hands. *And why not? It would seem the most efficient way to carry them.*

*Unless you drop the basket. Or someone comes along and knocks it out of your hands.*

The Drevny had to admit that there was a certain amount of truth to that. When he didn't reply right away, the other man went on, *I could be like the old-time ministers the humans called circuit riders. In parts of the country where no one church was large enough to afford its own minister, a number of them would get together and share the services of one minister. I could do that sort of thing, making myself available to any newcomer community within driving distance of where I now live.*

When Bin Veylan still didn't reply, he continued with gathering enthusiasm, *I'm financially self-sufficient, so the experiment wouldn't cost the Order anything. I would be able to officiate at other ceremonies too, when needed. I could truly be the binnaum of these children, since I would be there to teach them our traditions and follow their progress, rather than being just some stranger from far away. A small community such as ours needs that sort of continuity.*

So that was what the man wanted, Bin Veylan thought to himself. Interesting idea, but not possible.

The Overseer leaned forward eagerly. *It could work, Drevny, I know it could. In fact, it's already working on a limited basis. All I need is the sanction of the Order. I'm the logical one to try this, since I'm already fairly well accepted by my community, despite my past. As you pointed out, I wouldn't be of much use elsewhere. And if anything happens to me --* He shrugged. *Well, I don't imagine the Order would consider that a great loss. You would lose nothing by this experiment, and it would provide insight into a new possibility for the future.*

The Drevny regarded him coldly. *Lose nothing, Bin Treyma? Are our traditions then nothing?*

*We must take from our tradition that which continues to be valuable,* the other man replied carefully, *but we must not allow it to lock us into the past when there are better ways.*

A dangerous concept indeed!

*Would you have us adopt human customs, then?* Bin Veylan asked sourly.

*Only if we find a particular custom to be congruent with our beliefs and practices.* Treyma made a small gesture of dismissal with one hand. *Besides, we've already begun adapting to human society. Look at the Day of Descent ritual. It's based on the human Thanksgiving, but it expresses our feelings accurately also. Surely, many things are common to all peoples, regardless of where they came from.*

The Drevny frowned again. *If we fail to hold to our own traditions, we will soon cease to exist as a people. Besides, I see much on this planet that does not bear emulation.*

*So do I. But there are also many things within our own traditions that are less than admirable. We Tenctonese are highly adaptable. Shall we not use that talent here on our new world? The real question isn't whether we shall adapt, but rather to what shall we adapt.*

Bin Veylan had never looked at it in quite that way before, but he still didn't care for the idea. *I'm not at all sure I like the particular adaptation you're suggesting,* he replied.

Silence spread around the two men, as Bin Veylan glared at his disquieting visitor. No outsider suggested changes to a Drevny. That was unheard of. Yet here was this Overseer, presuming to tell him what should be done.

*Drevny,* the other man said softly, *you are required to let me try the druvaad#. It is the Law.*

Now the man was telling him the Law! This was intolerable! However, the Overseer had it right. The druvaad# was, in fact, meant specifically for circumstances such as this, where serious doubt existed as to the moral fitness of a binnaum wishing to be part of the Order.

Bin Veylan wished sincerely for a way out of the situation. He definitely did not want this person in his monastery.

Perhaps he could be talked out of it. Bin Veylan leaned back and steepled his fingers. *If I agree to let you go through the ceremony and we do not accept you, will you vow to stop practicing on your own?*

Bin Treyma's face went white. *You have no right to ask that.*

*On the contrary. You can hardly expect me to believe that you wish to become one of us out of a sincere desire to conform to the Law of Celine and Andarko if you are unwilling to stop breaking that Law. Such an attitude hardly demonstrates true repentance. Even someone such as yourself should be able to see that.*

Much to the Drevny's dismay, the other binnaum nodded slowly, conceding defeat. *I will so vow.*

Now what could he say? That the Overseer didn't stand a chance? True that might be, but the Law gave him the right to be judged by his peers, and that judgement was meant to be impartial. That being the case, the Drevny could hardly insist that the result was a foregone conclusion.

There seemed to be no help for it.

Bin Veylan's voice adopted a more formal cadence as he asked the required question. *Do you realize you will risk your life and your sanity by taking previdac?*

*I realize the risks,* the Overseer replied firmly.

*You are absolutely certain you wish to do this?*

*I am.*

*Very well, Bin Treyma, you shall have your chance. The Law requires that you have at least one day to think over and consider this decision.* He glanced at the clock on the wall. *We shall therefore begin at I0 AM tomorrow morning.* He stood up, much relieved to end this unpleasant interview.

As the Overseer also rose to his feet, the Drevny said sternly, *May the Infinitely Holy have mercy on you.* Almost as an afterthought, he added, *I'm not sure anyone else will.*

 

Francis sat cross-legged on the heavily padded mat which covered the entire floor of the small chapel. On the raised platform at one end of the room, four large candles in translucent holders burned on a simple altar, two off to each side of a plain silver cup. The Tenctonese script down the side of each holder told which of the Four Pillars each individual candle represented: Tradition, Love, Spirituality, and Honor. Smaller candles flickered in niches along each wall, naming other values, but Francis kept his gaze fastened on the Tradition candle, meditating on that one.

Or trying to meditate. It wasn't easy tonight. Tomorrow morning, the ones chosen to be his inquisitors would come to question him. He did not know what they would ask, wouldn't know after it was all over what they had asked, but he knew what he would answer. Anything he said would be the truth as he believed it to be. The previdac would see to that.

His hearts pounded and his breath seemed to catch in his throat at that thought.

Previdac was the most effective lie detector known to Tenctonese pharmacology. Under its influence, you could not lie even to yourself. Although Francis had always tried to be completely honest about his past, this would be the ultimate in un-self-censored honesty. He knew the drug's effects, since he had used it once on someone. Truly skilled questioning could make your victim virtually re-live whatever part of their life you chose and describe it in excruciating detail at the same time.

Could he face that? He wasn't sure he wouldn't rather have faced Piedra Frelani instead, and the neural wand she had known how to use with such devastating effectiveness.

He bowed his head and concentrated on breathing slowly and regularly. Panic wouldn't help him now. There was no use worrying about the outcome. They would accept him or they would reject him. Nothing he could do at this point would change that. And if he were one of those who reacted badly to the drug -- Well, there was nothing he could do about that either.

Whatever had possessed him to promise the Drevny that he would not continue to practice outside the Order if he were turned down? Despite the Drevny's logic, it still didn't seem to him that he had been doing wrong. Being binnaum to those children had been the best and most worthy thing he had yet accomplished in his life. If he were to lose that, what would he have left?

But he could never truly lose that. What was done, was done. Like little Sandy Wagner, the good he had created would not suddenly cease to exist, no matter what happened to him. And if it hadn't been strictly according to the Law?

Francis decided to leave such judgements as that to the Infinitely Holy.

He winced as he recalled how he had tried in vain to convince Bin Veylan to send him back to Cartersville if the Order accepted him. He hadn't intended to bring that up until he had actually gained acceptance, but he had gone ahead and blurted it out anyway.

Even if he were to be successful, was that what he really wanted? Wouldn't it be easier to spend the rest of his life here in the monastery as just another binnaum? He'd seen enough of the outside world to realize he wouldn't miss it particularly.

But then what about the Wagners and the Miltons and all the other couples he knew? And not only his community. What about the many other small groups of newcomers that would surely be formed in coming years, as they spread throughout American society and eventually throughout the world?

Changes would have to be made and someone would have to be first. That was never easy, but he was in a unique position to create that change. If only the Drevny would see it that way.

Looking up once again at the candles, Francis tried to let their steady glow restore his soul to peace. The soft light brought to mind another dim room, illuminated only by the small candles in Esther Pearlman's menorah. Her words about choosing from tradition that which continued to hold meaning had been what had started the train of thought that had ultimately brought him to this day. Make changes where necessary, but hold to the good and the holy. Esther would have understood why he was here.

He sighed. Now if only he himself understood it better.

Why was he so set on doing this? Was it just to gain approval from others? Did it really matter so much if the Order accepted him or not? Why not simply continue as he had been doing? The Order had no authority to stop him, not on this planet.

But then why say the prayers, why invoke Celine and Andarko, if he was not willing to abide by their Laws? He couldn't honestly say he didn't believe the Law was right, although he might question the interpretations that had been made on some points.

Was it all just his own guilty conscience, striving to be put at peace at last? Would the Order's approval, if he should manage to get it, really set things right? Would it undo the past, and the Ship? No, of course not. Would the Order's acceptance even guarantee forgiveness before the Infinitely Holy? Also no. Everyone knew that no mortal could truly speak for the Infinitely Holy. It would be absurd to make such a claim.

Looking beyond the candles and beyond the silver bowl, Francis contemplated the blank gray Wall behind the altar, which was the only representation of the Infinitely Holy permitted by Tenctonese tradition. Everything -- and Nothing. There -- and Not There. Now -- and Eternity.

He flung himself forward onto his face, fingers pressing his temples. To the soft carpet beneath him and the blank grayness of the Wall, he prayed fervently, *I no longer know my own mind. Send me understanding, that I may choose the right path.*

 

"What do you mean, his sanity and his life?" Pat demanded incredulously. "What are you going to do to him?"

Her airplane had landed ten hours late at Newark Airport, after being delayed and re-routed due to a blizzard. Although she had wasted no time in getting a taxi to take her to the Order's Chapter House, located just across the river on Staten Island, it had been after midnight when she'd finally arrived.

So far, she hadn't liked what she'd seen of these religious fanatics. Although they had been courteous enough to show her to a guest room, they had politely but firmly told her she'd have to wait until the following morning to see the head honcho, who was supposedly meditating and not to be disturbed. Fast asleep would probably have been closer to the truth!

After tossing and turning for hours, she'd finally fallen asleep, only to be awakened abruptly by a summons to Bin Veylan's office, where she now sat. This so-called Drevny with his fancy regalia and pompous attitude didn't impress her at all.

The newcomer spread his hands placatingly on his desktop. "Ms. Fisher, please. May I remind you that your friend came to us asking for this? It was not our idea."

"You sent someone after him --"

"That was months ago. I sent Bin Thanika to find out what he was doing and to see whether the rumors we had heard were true. That's all."

And I suppose you had no idea Thanika would try to kill Francis, did you? she thought resentfully. But she had no proof that the Drevny had been involved in that, so didn't say it aloud.

"So what is this druvaad# ceremony all about?" she asked instead.

If the Drevny had had eyebrows, they would have been lifted in surprise. *You pronounced that fairly well. Do you speak Tenctonese?*

*Yes, a little,* she answered in kind. *But better do I understand than speak.*

"Ah! Then we'll continue to use your language."

"Are you going to tell me what happens to Francis or not?" she persisted, not really caring if she sounded rude.

"Put very simply, we ask him questions. Based on his answers, we decide whether or not to admit him to the Order."

Too easy. There had to be more to it than that.

"Who asks the questions?" she persisted. 

"Four inquisitors of my choosing." 

"So where's the risk you mentioned?"

"He must first take previdac, a drug which prevents him from lying to us."

"Sort of a truth serum?"

"Yes. But a very dangerous one. If the person has too great a difficulty admitting and accepting the truth, the psychological pressure can cause permanent insanity. There have also been cases of death from cerebral hemorrhage and cardiac arrest."

The situation was looking worse all the time. Could these people be serious?

"If this drug is so dangerous, why would anyone take it?"

"No one does without grave cause. There are no pleasant effects to counteract the risk. Quite the contrary, in fact. This is a drug no Tenctonese would want to take."

"Oh." Pat thought for a minute. "But if it's truth you're after, why not just douse your victims with the gas used on the Ship and then order them not to lie?"

"The gas can be resisted, or immunity can be built up against it. In Bin Treyma's case, it would be ineffective anyway. He bears the tattoo of the Kleezantsun#. That makes him immune."

"But it's only a tattoo," Pat objected. "How could it --"

"Along with the pigment, they embed a time-release chemical that counteracts the gas," he explained. "Haven't you wondered why he still has the tattoo, when he claims to repudiate all it stands for? Or why other Overseers haven't had theirs removed so they could pass as ordinary Tenctonese?"

"Well, yes," she admitted reluctantly.

"After a number of years, the Overseer's body grows accustomed to this counteractant. Remove that tattoo, and he or she will very likely die."

"I wasn't aware of that."

The Drevny waved away her disclaimer. "No reason you should be. But there may be other things involved in all this that you also are not aware of, Ms. Fisher. Perhaps it would be best if you left this to us and returned to your home."

Oh no. You're not getting off the hook so easily, you overdressed ass.

"Francis is my friend. I can't just walk out on him."

"I respect your concern, but you can do nothing to help him. The choice was his."

"Couldn't you discourage him?"

"I tried. Please believe me when I say I do not look forward to this."

The newcomer was obviously sincere, and Pat believed she knew why. "You don't think he'll make it, do you?"

"Ms. Fisher, he was an Overseer. I don't believe he can face his past at the level the drug will make necessary. Perhaps he thinks he can, but I don't. I'll be surprised if he comes out alive, not to mention sane."

Pat read something more than that in the man's voice. "Even if he survives, the Order won't accept him. Right?" she asked quickly.

"His four judges will make that decision. For him to be accepted, it must be unanimous."

The answer seemed entirely neutral, but there was just a hint of self-righteous smugness in the man's tone. For a brief moment, he reminded her of -- No, she corrected herself hastily, that was silly. This newcomer didn't look at all like Reverend Barden. Why would she even think of that?

"You don't believe there's much chance he'll be accepted?"

"Ms. Fisher, he was an Overseer." The Drevny spread his hands as if no further explanation were necessary.

Pat folded her arms across her chest and glared at Bin Veylan. "Fine. Francis has already been judged and found guilty. Tell me, do you make every binnaum who wants to join your Order go through this sort of thing?"

The Drevny looked truly appalled at that suggestion. "Oh no! Only in the case of someone who has done something so terrible that there exists considerable doubt as to his fitness to be one of us. Such cases are extremely rare. Even on Tencton, if it happened once in a generation, it was remarkable."

"Is this how you want to start your history on this planet then?" she challenged. "With an antiquated ordeal ritual?"

"No," the Drevny replied, his forehead creasing in a frown. "Ms. Fisher, we are going around in circles. I don't want this. I sincerely wish Bin Treyma had never come to me, but since he has, I have little choice. I tried to dissuade him already."

"Can't you stop it?"

The binnaum spread both hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"He demanded it. It is his right."

"And if he changed his mind now? Would it be too late?"

"Not at all. He can withdraw at any time, right up until he actually takes the drug. After that, it's too late."

"Then let me talk to him. Perhaps I can convince him to back out."

The enthusiasm of the Drevny's reply surprised her.

"You are more than welcome to try. If you'll come with me, I'll take you to him."

 

The door opened behind him and Francis rose to his feet, smoothing the fabric of the plain white robe he wore. Could it be time already? He turned, seeking for a calm he did not feel.

Pat Fisher stood just inside the chapel door, staring into the semi-darkness.

He blinked once in surprise as he recognized his friend.

"Francis?" she asked uncertainly. Her slow human reflexes and limited night vision must be making him nearly invisible to her in the dimly-lit room.

"Pat, what are you doing here?" he asked, crossing over to her and taking her arm. As they spoke, he led her across the room and drew her down to sit beside him on the padded floor in front of the altar platform.

"I -- I came to talk you out of this."

Smiling at her impetuousness, he shook his head. "How did you even know where to find me?"

She clasped his hand. "That isn't important now. What matters is that I convince you this isn't necessary."

"Wait a minute. How do you know what it is you're trying to talk me out of?"

"The Drevny told me," she replied impatiently. "Francis, you don't have to do this. It doesn't matter to anyone back home if you're part of the Order or not. It's not worth risking your life --"

He cut her off, saying gently, "I know you're concerned for me, but you don't understand what's involved here and what it means to me."

"I don't have to understand. I know you could end up dead or insane. You mean too much to me, and to everyone back home. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Forget this mumbo jumbo and let's get out of here."

Francis sighed. "This 'mumbo-jumbo' as you call it, is very important to me. This isn't your business and you shouldn't have come."

"I had to try to help you --"

"You can't help me. There's nothing you can do."

"Boss, please. You're not thinking straight. You've barely recovered from that accident you were in, and you're still weak. You should wait --"

“If I wait any longer, I may lose my nerve," he interrupted. He really didn't need this just now. It was hard enough trying to figure out his own mind, much less have to explain it to a human. If he admitted to any uncertainty, she would surely use it to weaken his resolve. "I know you don't understand why I'm doing this, but I have thought about it long and hard. I appreciate your concern, but this is my choice. You can help me most by accepting it."

"You can't mean you really believe all this?!" With a sweeping gesture, she managed to encompass the altar with its candles, the chapel, and the entire monastery.

There was too much anguish behind that question for Francis to accept it at face value. "You don't even understand what 'all this' means," he pointed out gently, "so how can you judge its worthiness to be believed?"

"I don't have to understand it. It's just like human religion. There's nothing to it but power trips and hypocrisy. It's a way to manipulate people and make them do what you want them to."

"Don't you think you're being a little too simplistic? Any system of belief or philosophy can be used to control people. Does that make them all the same? Or all unworthy?

"Francis, I don't want to argue religion with you."

"Then why are you here?"

That stopped her.

"I guess I wanted to save you from these people," she replied slowly.

"You can't save me. I'm the only one who can do that."

Pat shook her head in frustration. "Don't you understand? They have no intention of letting you be one of them."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know what religious people are like, dammit! They're full of pretty words about forgiveness and love and high ideals, but when it comes right down to it, it's all bigotry and hatred if you won't follow their orders."

Yes, he supposed it could seem that way, from a certain point of view.

From some prior discussions they'd had, he knew Pat wasn't much interested in religion. He'd never attempted to question her disbelief, since he had not felt it was his right to do so. However, her present distress seemed based on more than a simple intellectual rejection of religious precepts.

He asked gently, "Was the fault in what you were being taught, or in the one who was teaching you?"

Pat's face contorted in what almost seemed a grimace of pain and he knew he had struck a nerve.

She replied through clenched teeth, "Both."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

"Aren't you supposed to be praying or meditating or something, instead of playing psychiatrist?"

"You're avoiding the question." 

"So are you."

Francis shrugged. "I'm not playing psychiatrist. You've objected to my going through a religious ritual on the grounds that religion can't be trusted, yet you refuse to give me the facts that support your claim."

"You really want to know?"

"Yes." But not nearly as badly as you want to tell me.

She shook her head, as if to dismiss the whole thing as meaningless. "It was nothing, really. Just a young girl foolish enough to trust a --"

He cut her off abruptly. "Pat, if it wasn't important, why are there tears in your eyes?"

Wiping them hastily away with the back of one hand, she began hesitantly, "Oh, all right. It was back when I went to college. I had never been terribly religious as a child. My parents took me to church and all that, but it didn't mean much to me. Then when I went off to college, there was a really good campus ministry program. Somehow, I found myself at one of their services. There was a young minister, Reverend Paul Barden, and he was full of enthusiasm for doing God's work --"

She stopped and cleared her throat. "Well, to make a long story short, before I knew it, I was quite involved, and I loved it. For most of that first year, I was happy as could be, with all sorts of new friends and activities." Pat smiled crookedly and shook her head. "Of course, I should have known better. Even then, I was attracted to girls, not boys. I knew the church's teaching against such a thing, so I guess I was only fooling myself. But I thought I could trust Reverend Barden to understand. Gathering all my courage, I confessed my secret to him, hoping for sympathetic guidance and advice."

She fell silent, staring down at the carpet.

"I take it that's not what you got?" Francis prompted gently.

"Damn right! The bastard threw me out of his office. The following Sunday, he denounced me in front of the entire congregation, demanding that I come up to the altar, confess my sins, and swear never to do so much as think such thoughts again."

Her head came up, eyes blazing. "I ran out of that church sobbing, but I'd be damned if I'd repent something that never seemed sinful to me!"

No wonder Pat had been so upset when she'd thought he'd been lying to her after that incident with Thanika! It must have reawakened old memories of that betrayal.

Francis said gently, "That hurt you very much."

"Sure it did! I looked up to that man; I trusted him. I thought he'd at least try to understand." Then she smiled a vicious smile. "You want to know the real kicker, boss? A year later, Reverend Barden was accused of molesting two little girls in his Sunday School class. That's the kind of morality he lived by! Do you really wonder why I don't trust religious folks anymore?"

"Because one person betrayed you, it doesn't automatically follow that all others will," Francis pointed out.

"Suuuure. And you really think this Order of yours can be trusted? There's nothing particularly holy about them, as far as I can see. What makes them able to pass judgement on you? After all, they're only human. Well, I mean Tenctonese. What makes you think you can trust them to accept you?"

"I'm not trusting them to accept me. I'm trusting them to do what they truly feel is right in my case."

"But they don't know you! They don't know what you've done back home."

"Don't worry," he said grimly. "They'll have the opportunity to find out whatever they want to know about me."

Pat slumped back on the soft mat in defeat. "I don't get it. Why can't you just go on the way you were doing before? What was wrong with that?"

That was the question he'd been turning over and over in his mind all night. How could he answer Pat, if he could not even answer himself?

But he had to try. He owed her that much. As he studied his friend's face in the candlelight, wondering where to begin, he saw her briefly in his mind's eye as she had been the night she'd escorted him down the stairs and into the Wagners' living room for the coupling ceremony.

Something about that memory was important. It flickered at the edge of his awareness, but he didn't quite grasp it. What was it? What?

"Francis?" Pat asked. "Something wrong?"

"No. It's just --" Frowning, he shook his head. Maybe if he could put it into words, it would become clear. "Remember that night with Jane? The first time I --" The words ran out. He started over again. "If the Order can accept me, I'll be able to be a legitimate part of the tradition that I've come to value. The first time I catalyzed a child with the proper ritual, it was little more than a charade, an act I put on to please the others. But it came to mean far more to me each time. The prayers and invocations struck deeper into my soul at every repetition."

Yes, that was it. Even as he struggled for the words, something clicked into place in his mind.

"Finally, it became too painful to feel myself a phony. I want to be the real thing. I want to represent the tradition I have come to value, to lend my voice to the chorus of those who seek for the Holy. I can't do that as a renegade practicing outside the Law." He shook his head before admitting raggedly, "I've been a lot of awful things in my life, but I've never been much good at being a hypocrite. I've done plenty of very sincere evil. Now I want to do some sincere good."

"I can't argue with that, boss. But are you absolutely certain this is the best way to go about it?"

Francis smiled. Yes, he was certain. "You humans talk about doing things halfheartedly. Well, we have a saying to the effect that you cannot survive if your hearts do not beat in harmony. I can't stand to live any longer divided against myself this way. I can't say one thing while doing another. Either I've got to be a part of the Order, or I've got to stop pretending to be entitled to perform the ceremonies as if I were."

"It doesn't matter --"

"It does matter!" he interrupted vehemently. "Remember you told me about the human who wrote that song, 'Astonishing Grace'?"

"You mean, 'Amazing Grace,' boss."

"Whatever. Anyway, you said he was the captain of a slaveship. He later repented and became a clergyman. He could have lived a moral life as a layman, but he must have wanted to do more than that. I imagine he'd have understood why I want to do this."

"It's not the same. That guy didn't have to risk his life to join the clergy. This druvaad# of yours is barbaric."

"No, it's the prescribed method for someone like me to seek absolution. It is just. You do not gain redemption simply by saying you're sorry, genuine though that sorrow may be. It's not that easy -- and it shouldn't be that easy. That's a human belief, which has no part in Tenctonese tradition."

"Sounds a lot like the old 'eye for an eye' routine to me," Pat said sourly.

"No, not quite. If it were, I'd probably be put to death very slowly and painfully over the course of the next few weeks."

That shocked her into a long and thoughtful silence. Francis glanced up past the altar to the Wall. Let her understand! he begged.

"These traditions mean a lot to you, boss?"

"Yes." What could he say to convince her? "It's especially important on this new planet that our traditions be maintained. I don't mean blind obedience to the past, of course. But that which is still of value to us in our new situation must be carefully determined and then passed on to the next generation. I've seen a large number of our people who are literally without foundations on this planet, unable to maintain their own identity in the face of human culture. Some have chosen to adopt various human belief systems, but many are simply lost and drifting, without purpose or standards or values."

"They're not alone, boss. Huge chunks of the human race are in the same boat."

"That may well be true, but why would anyone wish to be, as you say, in that boat?"

"Maybe because all those religions and philosophies are a bunch of malarkey dedicated to keeping people obedient to their outmoded ideas!"

"It doesn't have to be that way --"

"Maybe not, but it is!"

At the far end of the room, the door opened quietly. The Drevny stood framed in the brighter light of the hallway. Francis knew he had to end this quickly.

"If the teachings of your church had seemed to you to be right, would you have abandoned them just because someone failed to live up to them?" he asked.

"People will always fail to live up to impossible ideals. All they create is frustration," she rasped.

He could hear the swish of the Drevny's ornate robe as the other binnaum crossed the room towards them. Give me the right words! Francis pleaded silently, knowing his time had run out.

"Ideals create hope, and striving. The miracle comes when we do live up to them," he said softly to Pat, as he rose to his feet.

 

Bin Veylan was loathe to interrupt what was going on between Ms. Fisher and Bin Treyma, but it was time to begin the druvaad#. He hadn't been able to avoid hearing what had been said, but he walked slowly across the chapel, giving them a chance to notice his presence and conclude their discussion in relative privacy.

 

"This is worth your life, boss?" the human woman asked softly as she stood up."

"It's worth far more than that."

"You're sure?"

"I am."

 

Much to the Drevny's surprise, the human wrapped her arms around Bin Treyma and hugged him tightly.

After a moment, Bin Veylan cleared his throat. The woman released Treyma quickly and stepped back, as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't have.

When no one said anything, Bin Veylan broke the silence. "I take it you had no more luck dissuading him than I had, Ms. Fisher?"

"You take it correctly," she replied. "I guess I've got to leave now, right?" The Drevny nodded. "May I stay here at the monastery until it's over?"

"Do you wish your friend to remain?" Bin Veylan asked, turning to Treyma.

"If possible, yes," he replied.

"Very well." He returned his attention to the human. "Ms. Fisher, my secretary is out in the hall. He'll show you back to your room."

The woman started toward the door. At the last minute, she turned and gave them a bright smile. Displaying a fist with one thumb pointing up in the air, she said, "Knock 'em dead, boss."

When the door had closed behind her, the Drevny asked, *She wishes you to kill us?*

For a brief moment, Bin Treyma looked as if he might laugh. Then the serious expression returned to his face and he explained tersely, *Figure of speech. It means she wishes me success. *

*Oh.* Bin Veylan shook his head. *Humans are hard to understand sometimes. Combined with that gesture, I thought it was some sort of threat display.* He shrugged and then went on, *We are ready to begin. Take your place.*

With a nod, Treyma turned to face the altar. Bin Veylan lifted his hand, signaling the four chosen inquisitors to approach. As they stepped up onto the platform and arranged themselves behind the altar, the Drevny came around to stand in front of the candidate. Reaching up to the altar, he took the silver cup in his hands, suppressing a shudder as he did so. The vile purple liquid in the cup glistened with an oily sheen in the diffuse light from the candles. Previdac was nasty stuff and Bin Veylan hated the circumstances that had forced him into having to use it on someone.

He looked Bin Treyma in the eyes, hoping even now to find some indication that the man would back down and make this unnecessary, but the Overseer's eyes were riveted on the silver cup. He seemed not even to notice the man holding it.

Reluctantly, the Drevny began the ritual. *Bin Treyma #Sendra, these are the ones chosen to be your inquisitors.*

 

Only then was Francis able to tear his eyes away from the cup that held the drug. Four hooded figures faced him from their places behind the altar, their faces entirely hidden by opaque veils.

The first one extended his hands over the top of the first candle and recited formally, *By the light of Tradition, shall I judge you.*

Francis nodded fractionally in acknowledgement, and the next one said, *By the light of Honor, shall I judge you.*

As the third inquisitor spoke in his turn, Francis only had half his mind on the ritual words, so apprehensive was he over what would come next. But the final inquisitor's words pulled him back into the present with a vengeance.

*By the light of Love, shall I judge you.* That voice could only belong to Bin Thanika Lestrei, and there was very little of love in it.

Francis had to stop himself from reacting to the shock he felt. Thanika, his boyhood friend. Thanika, who had tried twice to kill him and whose parting words the last time he had seen him had been, *I still hate you, Treyma, and I'll get revenge, one way or another. That hasn't changed.*

The Drevny spoke next. *Bin Treyma, you are required to affirm that you submit yourself to the druvaad# of your own free will and in full knowledge of the possible consequences.*

This was his last chance to back out. Francis hesitated. The odds had just shifted significantly against him. He doubted there was anything he could say that would inspire Thanika to accept him, and the verdict had to be unanimous for him to succeed.

Had the Drevny hoped to dissuade him by appointing Thanika one of the judges? Or had he done it to insure that Francis would fail? Perhaps Pat was right after all and the verdict was a foregone conclusion.

For a moment, Francis studied the Drevny's face, but it was impossible to read his thoughts from his expression.

No, he would not assume the Drevny acted dishonestly. If this man and all he stood for was unworthy of trust, then it made no difference if he himself failed in his quest, for it was already lost.

*Bin Treyma?* the Drevny prompted.

Francis cleared his throat, as if his hesitation had only been due to nervousness. He resolved to take the risk. There would be no second chance. Better to try and fail than to give up now and hate himself for the rest of his life.

Lifting his eyes beyond the Drevny, and beyond the four who held his fate in their hands, he focused on the blank greyness of the Wall behind them. Here I am -- if you'll have me.

*Of my own free will, I affirm that I will drink the previdac. I will accept your judgement, as if it came from Celine and Andarko.*

Although he could not see his face, Francis imagined Thanika was smiling.

*So shall it be,* the Drevny intoned. He held the silver cup out to Francis, with its carefully measured dose of the truth drug.

Francis took the cup and drained it. The liquid was sour on his tongue and almost made him gag, but he suppressed that reflex. He sank down to the floor, reclining against the padding. Even as he lay back, he felt the previdac begin to affect him. His arms and legs grew heavy, his eyes drooped closed. It would have taken an insurmountable effort on his part merely to stand up again. Very soon, his mind would fade out and he would not be fully conscious of what they asked or what he answered. He knew he'd be told to drink again, and again, as long as there were still questions to be asked. The limit was ten hours, but he'd be lucky if there was anything left of his mind if it went on that long.

He shivered despite the warmth of the room, blood pounding in his temples as he felt his mind beginning to slip. This had been a mistake. He never should have agreed to it. The ideal was an impartial judgement, but was such a thing even possible to mortals? Considering his past, how impartial could these people be? He was a fool to have trusted anyone. He knew better than that. He knew what previdac could do to a person. He remembered vividly the screams of his own victim, even after so many years.

Francis fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands, trying to tell himself it was imagination. The light from the candles seemed to slash into his brain with flickering, improbable colors. He clamped his eyes shut, but the relative darkness wasn't much better. Hideous images clamored for his attention, seeping around the floodgates that strove to contain them.

*No, oh no,* he moaned, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

Then he heard Thanika say smugly, *Tell us about Dalvi Valens.*

Francis willed his mouth to stay closed, although he knew full well that was useless. Pain lanced through his head even as the world spun in sickening circles. He heard his traitor tongue form the words and knew he would babble out whatever came into his mind, but he was helpless to stop it.

*Dalvi was my teacher --*

The darkness coalesced around an image of Bin Dalvi, speaking hastily, secretly, to a group of young binnaums. The Holy Gas made it hard to concentrate on the older man's words, but the boys tried valiantly, forcing the words of the Teachings through their numbed minds.

They loved Dalvi. He was the only glimmer of hope, the only light in the unrelenting dreariness and sorrow they had lived with all their lives. They would have died for him, and done it gladly.

A harsh voice raked over this glowing image. *Tell us how you betrayed Bin Dalvi, Treyma. Tell us about Piedra Frelani.*

The images shifted like the inside of a kaleidoscope, and left him with --

Pain. Pain so intense he thought he couldn't bear it -- until it got worse. Agony that burned through his body and his mind, surrounded, coated, smothered by Piedra Frelani's coaxing voice. 

*It doesn't have to be this way, Treyma. There are other possibilities for you. Yield to me, boy. I'll make you into something you've never dreamed of becoming. Forget Celine and Andarko and all that nonsense. They cannot help you. Forget the Teachings. They do not matter here.*

The pain eased a little. He could almost think coherently in the brief lull. Why was he doing this? Did he really think he could resist the Kleezantsun#? But Dalvi. He couldn't betray Dalvi. He couldn't.

*Treyma, don't make me do this. Just tell me the name of your teacher, to show that you trust me. I know who he is already, foolish child. I only need to hear you say it and this unpleasantness will come to an end.*

He clamped his teeth shut, but the wand in Piedra's hand blazed purple and familiar hideous agony spread outward from where its tip touched his naked body. He screamed and screamed -- and at last the scream became a name.

Francis was vaguely aware that he was still screaming when another voice asked, *What happened next?*

The terrible kaleidoscope shifted again.

The time of discipline and training, under Piedra's watchful eyes. Fiercely determined now to win her approval, he struggled ruthlessly to mold himself into her image. Her words rang through his mind, awake or asleep.

*Love is weakness. Compassion is weakness. If you can see yourself in the place of your victim, you are lost. You are one of the Chosen. You must be strong.*

Then the final test: Dalvi, bound and helpless on the floor, with the candles flickering around him.

Francis' voice, dead and cold, as the double-bladed knife in his hand plunged down into his erstwhile teacher's breast: *I have learned to kill love.*

 

The hard metal rim of a cup was held to Francis' lips. Commanded to drink more of the previdac, he did so without resistance. If there were spoken questions after that, his mind wasn't fully aware of them. Memories filtered through his tortured brain, as vividly real as if he were dreaming them. They came and went with a volition not his own.

Row after row of bedracks full of cargo, their blank faces watching nothing. As they saw him, recognized the new tattoo on his wrist, they turned quickly away or stared at him in mindless terror.

If not for the Holy Gas, they could have swarmed down upon him like a plague of rats, tearing him to pieces.

He smiled. If not for the Gas --

 

The cold, bright room, the trays of instruments.

The females strapped down on those tables, helpless terror in their eyes. The males, when Piedra removed half-developed babies from their poaches, in order to see if they could be kept alive in her fancy machines. The artificial insemination that went against all Tenctonese traditions. Even the routine live couplings of selected genetic strains, performed with Gas-sodden zombies who had no voice in what was done to or with their bodies.

Over and over, time after time, until it all meant less than nothing to him.

And worse: until he came to enjoy what he did.

 

The one and only time he'd gone to watch the Game with Piedra. As the losers writhed and died screaming under the blast of saltwater, he had shaken his head in disapproval, not at the cruel deaths, but at the waste. The Overseers were supposed to maintain and transport the cargo, not destroy it indiscriminately.

 

The glaring light of the alien desert. The Ship wrecked, dangerous, soon to explode. Cargo wandering free, dazed and without guidance. The slave who had glared at him with such hatred and tried to stop him when he stripped the tunic from a nearby corpse to cover his naked shoulders.

Knowing that same hatred would be reflected in other eyes as well, he had carefully pulled the right sleeve down to be sure it covered his tattoo.

The ones he struck down, maybe killed, in that harsh desert, so he could take scarce food and water for his own need.

The hideous haze of memories shifted and blurred. For a merciful time, there was only darkness. Then consciousness reemerged into raw terror.

He lay helpless, bound and spread-eagled naked on a cold hard surface, a glaring light in his eyes. He wanted to struggle, to break free, at least to scream, but could not. He was surrounded by figures whose faces could not be seen. Slowly, deliberately, they began to slit him open, remove sections of his skin.

It should hurt but, strangely, it didn't. With every movement they made, he expected pain, flinched away from the cold, cold instruments they used, the casual way they cut him apart and left him oozing blood and soundless tears onto the sterile surface beneath him.

There was no caring, no feeling, behind those faceless ones. They cut him apart as if he were an animal to be butchered. He forced himself to look at the raw, exposed mess they had made of his torso. He saw the blood was congealed, the muscle putrefying. He was foul, a thing of horror and disgust. His living flesh had hidden this corruption, but it had been there all along. They had only stripped him of his disguise, that was all.

Then they came toward his head, set a sharp-edged chisel to his skull. A hand was raised, a hammer fell, driving the chisel deeper and deeper, as he fought uselessly to scream, to plead for mercy.

No, no! Not that! Leave me my brain. It's all I have left. Please don't! Oh please!

But they didn't listen. His skull shattered with a sharp crack, leaving his inmost self exposed to the harsh light. His brain would be as putrid as his flayed body. He knew it, but could not face it. It would be awful to look upon. Such things should never be exposed to the air and the light, or they would --

*Or they would what, Bin Treyma? Shrivel up and die? So what?*

It was the familiar voice of an old woman: Kheersa's voice. She stood beside the dissecting table, hands on hips.

*So honest you are, Treyma. So willing to admit your past. You refuse to run from what you've done. You pride yourself on that, don't you?* The way she said it made it seem to be a thing to be ashamed of. But he had tried his best to accept responsibility for what he had been. What more could she expect? He could not undo the past.

Kheersa smiled. Reaching out a hand to touch his wrist -- the tattoo was still there, although the flesh was gone! -- she invited, *Come with me, Treyma. See if you dare look at who really lies on this table.*

*No,* he whispered. *No. It's too awful. Don't make me --*

Her hand tightened. She drew him out and up, away from the foul thing he had become.

He kept his eyes locked on her smile. If he watched her, he wouldn't have to turn, wouldn't have to see --

Kheersa gripped his shoulders, spun him around. Panic and loathing filled his soul, but he could not stop his eyes from tracking. The white room, the searing light, the faceless figures gathered around. And on the table --

Only a young boy sobbing, with no one to comfort him.

*But--* he stammered, *the stinking flesh, the seeping blood, the shattered brain --*

Her hand, fingers curled together, reached out to touch his temple, her compassion and caring soothing the raw hurt that was his mind. *Illusions, Treyma,*she whispered. *All illusions. None of this is real.* Her lips quirked in a curious half-smile. *Or perhaps it is real, truer in its own way than so-called reality.*

He met the old woman's eyes. *I'm not sure I know what you mean.*

*Think about it. Perhaps someday you'll understand.*

She withdrew her hand and stepped back. *Goodbye, Bin Treyma. I promised to be with you until you didn't need me anymore. That time has come.*

*Kheersa --* He started after her.

*No.* Her hand lifted in a gesture of stern forbidding. *The boy down there is crying. Comfort him.*

She faded and was gone into a swirling mist that had begun seeping in from somewhere.

He moved hesitantly down toward the table. Gathering the child into his arms, he carried him past the faceless figures and away from that awful room.

The fog closed in thickly around them. It swirled around his ankles like a nest of snakes and wrapped his shoulders in a crushing mantle so that he could barely stand upright. His legs felt confined, shackled by tendrils of mist. The boy's body lay heavily in his arms, threatening to tear his shoulders from their sockets.

Resolutely, he pushed forward through the viscous atmosphere, wanting only to put distance between himself and that horrid bright room. The child weighed him down. Soon he struggled on hands and knees, dragging himself painfully along, clutching the boy to his breast with one aching arm.

The fog grew thicker, filling his lungs with chill dampness. Choking, gasping for breath, Francis still struggled forward.

As a crazy, shrieking darkness closed in on him, he held the boy closer, protecting him with his own body.

 

When Bin Veylan came into her room, Pat leapt up from the chair in which she had been half-dozing.

"How is he?" she demanded.

"Your friend is alive, Ms. Fisher. That's all I can tell you right now."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank heavens!"

"He's in the infirmary. Bin Charobi has begun administering the antidote, but it will be several hours before he'll be conscious."

"May I see him?"

The Drevny spread his hands. "There's nothing you can do."

"I know. I still want to see him."

"Very well. Come with me." He didn't sound pleased.

Pat's first glimpse of Francis wasn't encouraging. Still unconscious, he was strapped down on a bed, with an IV running into his left arm. His cheeks were sunken and the skin around his eyes was puffy and dark. Potted plants filled an entire wall of the little room, and two cats lay curled up on the bed next to the patient.

Seeing all the live things, Pat hoped fervently that this was merely standard procedure and not an indication of how bad off Francis was.

Hesitantly, she took his hand and whispered, "Boss?"

"He can't hear you," a young binnaum said gently as he injected something into the IV line. "He's shown no signs of consciousness yet."

"Ms. Fisher, this is Bin Charobi, our healer," the Drevny said in brief introduction.

"May I stay with Francis?" Pat asked, not sure which of them she should appeal to.

"You really ought to have something to eat and get some rest," the Drevny pointed out.

"I can eat here, if you'll have food sent in. And I can rest in that chair."

The newcomer sighed. "Yes, if it will please you, you may stay."

After Bin Veylan had left, Pat sat holding Francis' hand until someone brought her a cup of tea and a plate of fresh greens and insisted she eat. Then she returned to her vigil.

Time flowed by in a leaden stream. Every so often, Francis would moan or try to move, but the restraining straps held him down securely. Each time, she clutched his hand and whispered his name, but there was no response. As the hours dragged by, her worrying increased. Was it her imagination, or did Bin Charobi also seem to be getting more anxious? She wouldn't allow herself to lose hope. He'd be all right. Francis wasn't as easy to destroy as they all thought. She'd seen him face his past before. This may have been more intense, but it was only the same thing he'd been doing for several years now.

And if he couldn't handle it?

She leaned back in the chair and closed her weary eyes, forcing back tears. Life wouldn't be the same without Francis. She'd go on running the Inn, of course. She'd have her other friends, both Tenctonese and human. Dear Jane, whom she still loved but was coming to accept as just a friend. And Scarlett, who showed every sign of becoming more than just a friend, especially considering last weekend.

It would all go on, but without Francis. Well, she could do it if she had to. It was not impossible.

As her mind drifted, she once again saw Francis standing in the dimly-lit chapel and heard him asking, "Was the fault in what you were being taught, or in the one who was teaching you?"

Whatever had possessed her to tell him about Reverend Barden? Why had she bothered with her own troubles at such a crucial time? She should have left him alone, so he could prepare himself for what was coming. She had disrupted his concentration and placed an unfair burden on him when he'd already had enough to worry about.

Besides. he hadn't listened to her anyway. She might as well have been talking to the wall. Nothing had changed.

No, that wasn't quite right, she realized with surprise. Something had changed. When she thought of Reverend Barden, the memory didn't hurt anymore. It was past and it was over -- and it didn't matter! Barden had been one person in one religion at one time. That didn't mean the incident was applicable to all times and all people.

Maybe she had closed too many doors too soon, as a result of that unfortunate experience.

She found strange thoughts running through her head, half-whimsical, yet half-serious. Astonished, she realized she was almost praying!

Francis believes in You. He thinks You're something other than the God of my childhood. What have I heard him call You -- the Infinitely Holy? Well, that sounds better than any of the titles I was taught to use.

I don't know What or Who You are. I don't even know if You are. But if You're really there and You can hear me, all I ask is this: that Francis' faith in You be vindicated.

She shook her head and rubbed her stinging eyes. Then she chuckled softly. Now she knew she was losing it, if she'd actually been driven to pray for something after all these years. Whatever had possessed her to do that?

"Pat?"

She jumped and opened her eyes to find Francis looking at her blearily.

"Yeah, boss, it's me," she replied. "You okay?"

He tried to smile but it turned into a grimace. "Okay, no. Sane, perhaps. But I'd be more sure of that if my head didn't feel as if it were being split open."

Bin Charobi was next to her, stethoscope already pressed to Francis' chest. "Severe headache is an aftereffect of the previdac," he mumbled distractedly. "Nothing to worry about."

"Easy for you to say," Francis remarked tartly.

Pat breathed a sigh of relief. "You look like something the cat dragged in," she said with a smile.

"Oh? Can a cat carry this much weight?"

Pat managed a laugh. Then Francis asked what time it was. Glancing at her watch, she replied, "Almost 1 PM. Why?"

"When did they finish questioning me?"

Pat was about to say she didn't know exactly, when Bin Charobi spoke up. "Eight last night."

Francis winced. "It went on for ten hours then?"

"Yes."

"Celine! I'm lucky my brain isn't scrambled."

"Very lucky," the other binnaum agreed, as he unfastened the straps that had held Francis to the bed. "Don't try to get up yet."

"You don't have to worry about that," Francis assured him.

"Good. I'll mix up something for that headache, then you should try to sleep." Bin Charobi went to the small medicine cabinet in a corner of the room and busied himself with an assortment of bottles and packets, picking up the receiver of the phone on the wall and talking softly into it at the same time.

Pat turned her attention to Francis. "If they refuse you, you will come back to the Inn with me, won't you?"

"I'm not sure. I promised the Drevny I wouldn't practice outside the Order. I'd be of no use to anyone --" He raised his right wrist, staring at the jagged black mark that encircled it.

Pat grabbed his wrist, closing her fingers around the tattoo that she had never dared to so much as touch before. Pitching her voice low, she said, "You have friends, Francis. Friends who don't care about this, no matter what the Order decides. Come home, boss. We want you."

"I'll see," was all he answered. Gently freeing his hand from Pat's grasp, he patted the cat that lay curled at his side.

 

The Drevny hurried down to the infirmary, in response to Bin Charobi's call. It seemed that the Overseer had survived, despite the length of the questioning. That was almost a shame, considering what he was certain would be the final verdict.

Bin Veylan frowned, remembering how he had tried several times to cut things short, only to have Bin Thanika insist on further interrogation. If he had been aware of the depth of hatred Thanika bore for Treyma, he would not have chosen him to take part in the druvaad#.

For that the Drevny blamed himself. He should have been more perceptive. Thanika had had nothing good to report about the Overseer after he'd returned from his investigation several months ago, but that was only to be expected. He hadn't so much as hinted that he had known Treyma on the Ship. That had only come out during the questioning.

He wondered what else Thanika hadn't told him about, even as he reached the door. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. The last couple of days had been extremely difficult. He wanted nothing more than to retire to his room for a few hours of badly needed sleep, so his mind would be fresh and he could think clearly about what was to be done with the Overseer. All morning he had searched his soul for answers and come up with nothing new.

Bin Veylan rubbed his aching temples with his fingertips, straightened the fall of his robe, and went into the room.

Just as Bin Charobi had reported, there was the Overseer, conscious and apparently rational. Ms. Fisher sprang to her feet as the Drevny came through the door. She had evidently been talking to her friend.

Bin Veylan strode over to the bed, keeping his face carefully neutral. The Overseer was scratching one of the cat's ears with his free hand. That was a good sign. *Greetings, Bin Treyma. How are you feeling?*

*Terrible, Drevny. But I think I might live.* 

Yes, the patient obviously knew who he was and could make a coherent answer.

*Do you remember what happened?* 

*Yes. And I am anxiously awaiting the verdict.*

*Pardon me, Drevny,* Bin Charobi interrupted softly. *My patient really should be left alone now to rest.*

*Very well.* He turned to the human. "Ms. Fisher, are you satisfied that your friend is doing all right?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you would be willing to leave him in our care for a time?" he said, with a slight touch of sarcasm.

The woman smiled. "All right. I could use some sleep myself."

No sooner had they left the room than Ms. Fisher rudely grabbed the Drevny's sleeve and demanded, "What happens now? When do you decide? Or have you already decided?"

He glared at her coldly. She released his sleeve. "As I told you earlier, it isn't up to me. It's up to the four judges."

He started down the corridor. Perhaps if he accompanied her to her room he could get rid of her gracefully there.

They had descended the stairs and were almost to the guest wing when she came up with another challenge.

"If you have no say in the matter, why were you there?"

"Although a Drevny may interfere in such a judgement only rarely, he must always witness the proceedings." He waved her hostility aside, and continued, "The verdict will be made known exactly one day from the time the questioning ended. That will be at eight o'clock this evening. The judges will spend most of the day in prayer and meditation, considering their decisions. Bin Treyma should be sufficiently recovered by then to be advised of the result in the prescribed manner."

"I suppose there's a ceremony for that too?" she asked sourly.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

Her hand was already on the doorknob to her room. Good. He'd soon be free of this distraction.

She pushed the door open, but didn't go inside.

"You folks are awfully fond of ceremonies, aren't you? I don't suppose you'd consider just telling him to his face?" Then she slumped against the doorframe and scrubbed her eyes with one hand, as if she were trying to wipe away her exhaustion. "No, forget I said that. I don't mean to be rude. I'm just tired and worried."

"I respect your concern, Ms. Fisher. I too am not exactly at my best." Almost unwillingly, he asked the question that had been niggling at his mind ever since she had first appeared in his office. "I must admit to a certain curiosity about why you care so much for one of us, and especially one of us like Bin Treyma."

"You mean that Overseer business?"

"Exactly."

She thought about it for a moment, her eyes straying longingly toward the bed in the far corner of the room.

"Drevny," she said, smiling brightly despite her obvious desire for sleep, "would you like to know more about Francis?"

"I know quite a bit about him already." Bin Veylan allowed a small measure of his distaste for the subject to creep into his voice.

"Yes, I'm sure you do. But I'll bet you don't know much about what he's done in Cartersville, despite what Bin Thanika may have reported. Wouldn't you like to hear the rest of the story?" 

No, not particularly, was his immediate response. All he really wanted right now was the quiet of his modest chamber and a few hours of sleep to revive his flagging brain. But duty compelled him to hear all the available evidence. Perhaps this woman did have something new to add. He owed it to his own sense of integrity to listen.

He sat down on the single chair in the small room. "If you can make me understand how an Overseer has earned the sort of caring and loyalty you seem to feel for him, I am, as you humans say, all ears."

The woman smiled strangely. "All ears. Yeah, so I notice." She sat down on the bed. "It all started about a year and a half ago, when the Ku Klux Klan decided to terrorize two newcomers by the name of Jane and Richard Wagner," she began.

By the time she reached the end of her story two hours later, her voice was hoarse and cracking. "So you see, Francis is very important to me," she concluded. "And not just to me, but to the entire Tenctonese community in and around Cartersville. I want him back. We all want him back. We've forgiven him. Can't the Order do so also?"

Bin Veylan rubbed his forehead, which now seemed to ache as sharply as if he himself had been the one to take previdac. "This has been most informative, Ms. Fisher. I had no idea what the situation was like in your part of the country. Did I understand you to say the Klan disbanded when its leader was killed?" 

The human grimaced distastefully. "Only that particular part of it. The Ku Klux Klan itself is still going strong, I'm afraid. And so are all the other hate groups."

The Drevny shook his head. "Such things never die, do they?" He stood up, smoothing the creases out of his robe as he did so. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to get some sleep, as I'm sure you must also."

The woman's face crumpled into an expression of tired despair. What had she expected him to do, run out and declare Bin Treyma's virtues? Her story had cast a new light on the man, but it was only one factor out of many. He needed to consider this new information from all angles before deciding on its significance.

As he turned to go, Ms. Fisher caught hold of his sleeve. "Drevny? May I ask a favor?"

"What is it?" he replied warily.

"May I be with Francis when he hears the decision?"

"That would be quite irregular --"

"Please! I won't do anything but watch, I promise."

"It means so much to you?"

"Yes."

"Very well. If it's all right with Treyma, you may accompany him to the chapel. Bin Charobi will be in attendance, so just stay with him."

"Thank you."

He touched her hand hesitantly, still unused to the color of her skin. "You're welcome. Now go to bed and get some sleep, or you'll be in worse shape than your friend when it comes time to hear the verdict."

Pat decided it would be wise to follow the Drevny's advice.

 

Francis entered the chapel, leaning heavily on Bin Charobi's shoulder. At the other end of the room, four shadowed figures stood behind the altar, each carrying an unlighted candle in a holder.

The Drevny met Francis inside the door, asking *Can you make it on your own or do you need assistance?*

*I can make it,* Francis replied, loosing his hold on Charobi, who moved to stand beside the door, drawing Pat over next to him. The black woman flashed him a bright smile but said nothing.

Bin Veylan started down the length of the room. Francis followed close behind him, willing his knees not to shake. His judges stood motionless, awaiting him.

What had they asked and what had he answered? Had he told them all about every one of those brief flashes of his past that he could almost remember? Surely not. There wouldn't have been time. He must have imagined some of it. But what had he talked about? What had not been hallucination?

He didn't know and couldn't ask. What they knew, they knew. And on that basis, they would judge him. That thought sent panic coursing through him, the pain pounding in his head as if his skull were once again being split open. His eyes burned as if seawater had been dashed into his face, his flesh crawled as if a million fire ants covered him, preparing to bite.

No! This was surely illusion. No more real than the visions that had scrawled across his vulnerable brain. It was the aftereffects of the drug, nothing more. He had spent too many hours confined within the cage of his own mind. Now he must concentrate on outside realities.

The solid bulk of the altar loomed ahead of him at almost eye level. The Drevny had stepped aside, leaving him to stand alone before his fate. The four judges eyed him impassively as the Drevny said, *It is time to make your decisions known. What says the keeper of the Pillar of Tradition?*

The man who held the candle representing Tradition stepped forward. Placing the candle upright on the altar, he took up a small lamp and lit the wick. Then he bowed slightly toward the Drevny and moved back to his place.

That was one in Francis' favor.

*What says the keeper of the Pillar of Honor?* Bin Veylan inquired.  
The candle of Honor was lighted, followed by that of Spirituality.

With bated breath, Francis heard the final request and saw Thanika step forward. The verdict must be unanimous before he would be accepted. He was surprised to have gotten this far, but Thanika's would be the deciding vote.

Bin Thanika Lestrei turned the candle of Love upside down and placed it unlit upon the altar.

Francis slumped in defeat. Telling himself it was only what he had expected, he blinked back the tears in his eyes. Three candles burned in the dimness of the chapel, but that would not be enough to dispel the darkness that filled his hearts.

*Treyma #Sendra, you see the verdict before you,* said the Drevny, not unkindly. *Will you now vow before Celine and Andarko and in the name of the Infinitely Holy to honor your promise not to practice outside the Order, as was previously agreed?*

Should he protest? Say it was not fair, since Thanika had not been an unbiased judge? Repudiate his former promise and refuse to be bound by this oath?

For endless seconds, Francis considered that.

But no. He had known the rules and the possible outcome, and had insisted on playing the game regardless. Too late now to get out of it. He tried to tell himself that he hadn't lost everything. He still had the Inn and Pat's friendship. He could go on.

Yes, but his life would be as dark as that inverted candle on the altar without his role as binnaum. Couldn't they see that? Couldn't they understand what they were doing to him?

Enough! This is the judgement you asked for, and you have been found unworthy.

*I do so vow,* Francis said brokenly.

 

Bin Veylan nodded, allowing a small smile of satisfaction to play over his lips as he heard the other man's reply. Treyma was clearly devastated. All things considered, it was surprising he was still on his feet. Leaning close to the stricken ex-Overseer, the Drevny said softly, *Had you replied otherwise, I would not now do this.*

He mounted the raised platform and stood before the altar. *In the druvaad#, it is a Drevny's privilege to reverse one, and only one, of the candles. Rarely has this privilege been invoked, but I shall do so today.*

Taking the candle of Love, Bin Veylan set it upright and proceeded to kindle the flame. Looking directly at Thanika, he said gently, *A time comes when there must be an end even to justified hatred.* Then he turned to face the astonished candidate. *Be welcome among us, Bin Treyma.*

The Drevny noticed the other man go pale. Stepping quickly down from the altar, he took Treyma's arm, motioning Bin Charobi to attend him also.

*No, I'm all right,* Treyma managed, waving away the medical attendant. *It just wasn't what I expected, that's all.*

*Then I'm afraid I'm about to shock you even further.* The Drevny glanced over at Treyma's human friend, who stood stock-still by the door. "Ms. Fisher, would you join us please?"

She hurried over to stand at Treyma's other side,

*Did you understand the ceremony?* he asked slowly in Tenctonese.

*Yes. You did the right thing.*

*I'm glad you approve.* The Drevny allowed only a slight tinge of amused irony in his reply. *Bin Treyma, I did what I did in part because of a little talk I had earlier today with your friend here. Among other things, she made me see more clearly what your presence means in Cartersville. I have therefore decided that a time also comes when there must be changes even in ancient ways.* Treyma stared at him blankly. *I'm going to let you try that little 'experiment' you suggested when you first arrived,* the Drevny explained. *Go back to your community with my blessing. And may the Infinitely Holy go with you.*

Bin Treyma's face went a ghastly shade of white as he collapsed in a dead faint. Fortunately, the Drevny was able to catch him before he could hit the floor.

 

Two days later, Francis walked out the front door of the monastery with Pat close beside him. The crisp, cold air smelled marvelous. Even the piles of dirty grey snow, which were all that remained of the previous week's snowstorm, seemed to Francis' eyes to glitter like bejeweled hills in the bright sunlight. The lead weight that had settled heavier and heavier on his shoulders in recent months was gone. The world was new and possibilities seemed endless, for he was -- at last! -- a true servant of the Infinitely Holy.

Squinting her eyes against the sun, Pat turned to Francis, pleased to see that he looked well and happy.

"I think I'd like to hear about this Celine and Andarko of yours. Maybe there's something to all this after all," she said thoughtfully.

Francis stopped right where he was on the steps leading down from the monastery. "Celine and Andarko lived back in the days when --"

"Whoa! I didn't mean immediately," she interrupted, laughing. "For right now --" she linked her arm through his and drew him towards the taxi that stood waiting to take them to the airport --"Let's go home, boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short blurb here. In addition to fanfiction, I also write original ebooks under the name of Karl Five for erotica and as KL Schaefer for science fiction. They are all free, since I'm more interested in readers than dollars. Those ebooks may be found on Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and iBooks, but not on Amazon, since they won't allow an author to list all of their works as free.


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